


In the Dark of Dreams

by SandWitch42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Canon, Bottom Castiel, Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel/Dean Winchester Wing Kink, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Sam Winchester Has Sex, Smut, Tags Are Hard, Top Dean Winchester, Wall Sex, Wing Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-08 17:52:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 53,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16434071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SandWitch42/pseuds/SandWitch42
Summary: Someone has been visiting Dean's dreams, leaving Dean rather distracted in his waking state.  Somehow it lands him in middle-of-nowhere Nebraska with Sam, where there just happens to be a case.  The brothers need to navigate through small town living, the town gossip, and a professor with a couple of hidden surprises in order to solve it.  Maybe while they're there, Dean can get his head on straight... with a little help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cover art by the incomparable JenSpinner. It gives me the happys.

 

 

 

Lander, Wyoming

 

The room was dark, but Dean didn't need light to sense the body positioned over him. He could feel the weight of hands pressed into the mattress on both sides of his body, could feel the heat radiating between them increasing as the space was closed and lips pressed to his bare chest. Dean took in a deep breath through his nose and let it out slowly as the lips trailed along his skin. Aside from his sighs, the only other sound in the room was the steady pattering of rain outside. The body above him shifted as the lips traveled further down his torso. Each touch tingled as though it was channeling the growing electricity from the storm without. With that thought, the electrical charge released, and a streak of lightning illuminated the room through the glass of the single window across the room. It was so close, the answering thunder boomed directly on top of it, and with the light and sound, Dean's vision was filled with a pair of familiar blue eyes looking up at him along his bared abs and chest from the waistband of his cinched jeans. Then, darkness.

Dean's eyes popped open, and he jerked upright, his heart thumping under his black t-shirt. The room was dark, but Dean didn't need light to know he was alone in his bed. A heavy curtain covered the window near the motel door. The sound of wheels on the road outside whispered through the room, there then gone. No rain. He flopped back onto the mattress, pillow cradling his head, the air in his lungs coming out in a whoosh with the impact. He remembered with acuity the first time he had had one of these dreams and the fact that it had sparked a recurrence. Never with any regularity, they came sometimes twice a week or could stretch to once a month, or even longer. They had started innocently enough with just the weight of someone sitting on the side of the bed. It was a comforting presence after a hunt gone sideways. Too many people had died before Dean and his brother, Sam, had eliminated the threat, and Dean's heart ached over what he viewed as a failure. That night, he dreamed of a shadow-shrouded visitor who arrived and simply sat with him. Dean had woken the next morning feeling somewhat better. It was strange; he was used to being strongly affected -often negatively so- by his nightmares, but this dream had left him with a sense of calm peacefulness.

He soon learned his emotional pain was not a prerequisite for these dreams to take place, and over time, they slowly evolved into more than companionable silence. A hand resting on his shoulder. The trailing of fingers down his arm to grip his hand. The brush of a cheek against his. Then in one dream, he made the decision to take his shirt off. It stayed off in every dream thereafter. Eventually, the dreams became what he had experienced just now: the graze of a mouth exploring him but never quite touching his own lips, soft touches and caresses of fingertips that refused to stray below his waist, a monumental tease, always in silence, and always in complete darkness.

Except this time.

In the back of his sleeping mind, Dean had always known who he was dreaming of, but in his waking hours, he questioned himself. Tonight's flash of lightning removed any doubt. The entire room had lit up, and though it was only for a split second, it was enough for Dean to see every detail of a face he knew very well. A face he had been hoping would be be there. It also allowed him to see an expression on that face he was mostly certain he had been mirroring on his own: hunger.

 

.oOo.

 

Gothenburg, Nebraska

 

"There it is; Fourth Street," Sam pointed to the upcoming intersection. "Turn left." His brother flicked on the Impala's turn signal and eased the gleaming black car into the center lane before making the turn. "First right," Sam instructed.

"I got it, I got it," Dean replied. "I heard his directions too."

They were driving further into town than they normally did for food, but when Dean had asked the gas station attendant where to get a good burger, the young man had directed them to Lisa's Diner. Sam hoped there was more than just grease on the menu. He knew Dean would be fine with that, but Sam tended toward healthier fare.

"Funky-looking building on the left," Dean murmured as he pulled off of the road and into the dirt parking lot before the large, yellow sign. "Full parking lot; that's always a good sign." He found an empty spot and parked next to an EMS truck.

A tiny bell chimed as the brothers entered the establishment. Voices rang out from behind the counter and way back in the kitchen, "Welcome to Lisa's!" Sam shared an uncomfortable glance with Dean at the enthusiastic greeting. A laugh pulled their attention to a gray-haired woman behind the counter. She had a brightness in her eyes that belied the age on her face. "You can always tell the ones who've never been here before. Help yourself to sit where you like, gentlemen. We'll get a server over to you in a jiff."

They picked an empty booth and slid their tall frames into padded, red vinyl seats. Menus sat tucked within a basket filled with packets of condiments. Sam plucked one out and perused the options. It looked like both he and Dean would be happy here. He ended up ordering a Cobb salad while Dean, of course, got himself a half pound cheeseburger with extra bacon and a side of seasoned fries.

Service was surprisingly quick for such a busy place; it seemed like in no time at all, the food was delivered to their table. Dean took a large bite of his burger and groaned in appreciation. "Totally worth the wrong turn," he said through the mash of food in his mouth.

'Wrong turn' wasn't quite how Sam would put it. More like, no turn at all.

 

_They were heading back to Lebanon, to the bunker, from a hunt in Lander, Wyoming. The plan was to take Highway 287, which merged with Interstate 80 until Laramine, then keep on 287 to Denver, Colorado, spend a quick few minutes on Interstate 70 to Highway 36, and that would take them into Kansas, straight to Lebanon. It was a longer trip than it could have been, but Dean had two reasons for it: one, he was willing to add an hour in the car for a good meal, and there was a place just outside of Denver he loved; two, they tried to stick to back roads and highways rather than the Interstate anyhow. But once Dean had gotten onto Interstate 80, he never left it. He missed the exit to stay on Highway 287, and Sam had been dozing, so he didn't catch the mistake. The sun was well overhead when he woke up and looked at the gas gauge._

_"We should probably make a pit stop soon," he suggested. Dean started and blinked, and Sam realized he had pulled his brother out of deep thought. Deep enough to pay no attention whatsoever to where they were heading. Sam wanted to ask what was on his mind, but he knew Dean wouldn't answer. He watched as Dean's eyes flicked down to the gas gauge and then up to the nondescript road. There were fields on both sides, and virtually no landmarks to give tell to where they were._

_"Son of a bitch," Dean grumbled. A few minutes passed, and they finally spotted mile marker 207. "What the hell?" A few miles later, they saw another sign: Exit 211 to Gothenburg, one mile. "Son of a_ **bitch** _!" Dean said, this time with more force. "We're in freaking Nebraska."_

 

Granted, Sam allowed, as he forked a bite of salad into his mouth, as far as being on the wrong road went, being on a more direct route to home wasn't so bad. However, it was troublesome that Dean had been so far inside his own head that he had spent hours on an Interstate in broad daylight. They never knew when some good Samaritan would spot them and call the authorities. Officially, they were dead, but not everyone had gotten the memo.

"Didja hear about Mrs. Praxy?" The two EMS volunteers from the truck outside occupied the booth behind Sam. Instead of focusing on Dean grossly devouring his burger and fries in huge bites, he allowed himself to eavesdrop on the conversation.

"Aw man, her too? She holding up okay?"

"Actually..." there was a pause. "She didn't make it."

"Are you shitting me? Dammit!" Silverware clattered on a plate. "Bad enough that the hospital is filling up with out of towners, but now we gotta deal with them dying? Are you sure it was the same thing?" The response must have been non-verbal because the same voice kept speaking. "This is freaking weird. I hope they can start figuring out what the hell is going on. CSF doesn't just disappear like that."

"You and me both."

Sam stabbed at his salad with the fork, his interest in the food waning as his thoughts churned. The word "weird" was rarely used by any type of emergency or hospital personnel. For just about every occurrence, there is a medical explanation, and they were most decidedly in the practice of uncovering said explanation. In Sam's experience, it was only in supernatural situations when the word "weird" is brought up with these people. He looked across the table where Dean was still steadily tucking away his lunch, eyes staring at nothing, lost in his own thoughts again. He was oblivious to the conversation that had taken place only a few feet away. Sam made a note to bring it up in the Impala. He had a feeling there was a case here, and he didn't want to walk away from it.


	2. Chapter 2

Sam preceded his brother out of the elevator and into the hospital wing. He flipped open a well-worn black leather billfold to reveal his fake FBI badge to a blond, white-coated man speaking to a seated woman at the nurse's station. "Special Agent Brewer," he offered as an introduction. With a tip of his head, he indicated Dean who also held out a badge. "This is my partner, Special Agent Carl." Though they had been running out of aliases that fit the classic rock theme they typically preferred, Dean had initially scoffed at Sam's suggestion of picking names from Grand Funk Railroad. It was in Lander when he came around; Sam had left his iPod playing on random while they got ready to leave and caught Dean bopping along and lip syncing to 'We're An American Band.' When confronted, Dean had grudgingly agreed to use the aliases on their next case.

"Dr. Clemment," came the reply, along with a firm handshake for each of them. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

"We understand there's been a string of... peculiar hospitalizations over the past few days," Sam said as he tucked his badge into his inner jacket pocket.

"Well yes," Clemment confirmed. He adjusted brown turtle shell glasses that didn't need adjusting. "But I didn't realize the FBI would be getting involved in it. It's just headaches."

" _ Just _ headaches?" Dean put in, raising an eyebrow.

Clemment's dark blue eyes narrowed slightly. Sam immediately recognized the reaction of someone not liking Dean's tone. It happened far too frequently, but Dean couldn't help it, not really. The two of them had dealt with too many lies, too much deceit, for them to accept much of anything at face value anymore. Add in the fact that they had nothing more than an overheard conversation to go on, which was way less knowledge than they typically arm themselves with, and Sam knew Dean was only doing his best to fish for answers and not deliberately provoking the doctor.

"What we're asking, Doctor," he intercepted smoothly, pulling Clemment's attention to himself, "is what caused the headaches? Obviously, that's a symptom, not a diagnosis."

Clemment made a show of squaring his shoulders to face Sam, physically dismissing Dean from the conversation. Sam felt Dean bristle next to him, but he stayed blessedly quiet as Clemment opened up to Sam. "We've had nine admissions this week alone," he began. Sam nodded for the doctor to continue. "But that's not counting others who were briefly treated for migraines and sent home. Then yesterday, we had our first death: Agnes Praxy. No medical history of migraines, she's always been the epitome of health -especially for an eighty-one year old woman- and suddenly, she drops in the middle of the farmer's market and grabs onto her head, crying out in pain. Her grand daughter was with her and drove her straight to the ER. She insisted Mrs. Praxy be admitted and observed; she refused to believe it was  _ just _ a headache." His eyes momentarily flicked to Dean. "Turns out, Mrs. Praxy had been battling a growing pain and dizziness for most of the day, and it finally overwhelmed her. At her grand daughter's insistence for tests, we put her through an MRI and then spinal imaging, and it appeared to be a CSF leak."

"CSF?" Sam repeated.

"Cerebrospinal fluid. The spinal cord is made up of more layers than you'd realize. When the outermost layer -the dura mater- develops a hole, spinal fluid leaks out and causes positional headaches. Up until now, the patients feel better after laying down for a time, but she pushed herself too hard, and it caused her to collapse. A tough lady, was Mrs. Praxy. I imagine that had she been younger, and maybe rested sooner, she would have survived.

"So after that, the next person who came in with migraine-like symptoms was sent straight to imaging, and it was the same. Another CSF leak. We've had three since yesterday. Odd thing is, this sort of thing usually only happens in house. Tears from spinal taps, surgery, or even epidurals. When it happens, though, it's caught pretty quickly. Sure, it  _ can _ happen spontaneously; I've heard of cases of roller coasters causing intracranial hypotension, but this many? In one town? It's..."

"Weird," Sam finished for him, echoing what had been said in the diner. Clemment nodded.

"And that's not the weirdest part," he continued, lowering his voice. Sam took the doctor's cue and leaned his six foot four inch frame down closer to hear. "The tests we ran on each of the patients revealed that the fluid isn't just leaking within their bodies. There would be evidence of that. But it's not there; it's just  _ gone. _ I've checked everyone myself, and every single patient who presents with these symptoms also has a tiny mark on their lower spine, as though someone has drawn the fluid with a syringe."

Sam's eyebrows lifted in surprise, and his drawn forehead smoothed. He shared a look of concern with Dean and opened his mouth to speak, but Clemment hurried on. "I know as a medical professional I shouldn't been keeping this from my patients, but I don't want to create a panic. I mean, how could someone be sticking people with needles without getting caught anyhow?"

 

.oOo.

 

Curtis, Nebraska

That night, after researching alongside Sam, but before taking to his blankets, Dean sat on the side of his motel bed, his back to his brother. Sam was already well asleep, having started slightly curled on one side and was now sprawled across the entirety of his mattress, one foot sticking off the end.

_ S'what he gets for being so damn tall _ , Dean mused with a quick glance over his shoulder. He looked down at the empty beer bottle he was rolling between his palms. It was only the third of the evening. They had brought more in the cooler; he could have another before bed. The thought made him sigh and lean over to set the bottle on the bedside table with the other two empty bottles. He knew what he was doing, and it frustrated him that he was being such a bitch about it.

In the months that he had been having the dreams, not once did they ever happen two nights in a row. And here he was, damn near moping over the fact. It was time to go to sleep, and he didn't want to because he knew he wouldn't have one of his dreams,  _ the _ dreams. He sighed irritably and ran a hand down his face. It was more than that, and he knew it. Despite his desire for these dreams -or maybe because of it- he felt a little guilty too. Like he was keeping secrets. He'd been down that path with people before, and he never liked it. However, this time it wasn't your normal secret; this felt, well, kinda dirty. And now that his suspicion was proven correct, that he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt who was being featured in his dreams... now what? He didn't really know what to do with the information. Nothing had changed, not truly.

He sighed again and climbed into his blankets. He gave the lamp switch a flick, bathing the room in shadows. The curtain pulled across the single window in the room was old and cheap; it let the orange glow from the lamps in the parking lot filter straight through the fabric. It took no time at all for his eyes to adjust to the decrease in light.  _ Go to sleep, man,  _ he told himself. He turned his back to the window and closed his eyes. In his mind, he tried to imagine a world of darkness around him. The dreams were always pitch black. He conjured the feeling of that familiar presence, of fingers combing through his hair, of lips to his forehead, a hand balancing against his chest as legs straddle his hips and a body pressing him into the mattress, the look of raw desire in those blue eyes.

Dean's own eyes blinked open with a start. In that moment, he couldn't tell if seeing that face again had been his own doing or his dream mind taking over. Admittedly, in the past, he was never really very good at imagining things for himself. That's why he enjoyed the occasional "Busty Asian Beauties" mag or looking up "Casa Erotica" on his laptop. Then again, he hadn't gone to either of those sources since the dreams started. He didn't need to. No, coming up with his own fantasies wasn't his forte, but remembering his dreams was like reliving a vivid memory. And though the dreams only served to tease him, they were well worth remembering.

A sudden realization came over him that he was lying on his back, massaging the front of his sleep pants. He stilled his hand and cut his eyes across the small space that separated him from his sleeping brother.  _ Bad form,  _ he thought to himself before giving it an adjustment and turning onto his side again. No way was he going to jerk it while in the same room as his little brother. He accepted -and sometimes even reveled in- the fact he was a sexual deviant, but even he had his limits. Stubbornly, his erection pressed against the front of his pants; even more stubbornly, Dean continued to deny it what it wanted and even willed it away.

Bobby. Now  _ that _ was a face to distract him from this. He took it a step further and forced himself to wonder what Bobby would have thought of this thing they were hunting. First, he'd probably be proud Sam had been able to identify it without calling around. Bobby had worked hard behind the scenes to help all hunters, not just the brothers, and any time they were able to figure something out without calling, Dean was pleased they didn't have to bother him. Now, he found himself wishing they had paid the grizzled, old hunter more social calls. He deserved to know just how much they appreciated him, not only for his extensive research and knowledge as a hunter, but as a father figure when their own dad couldn't -or wouldn't- step up. Dean's only consolation was that he and Sam had been there with Bobby during his final breaths.

Sleep took him slowly, and once it did, Dean dreamed of the smell of old books and whiskey: the smell that was Bobby's study.


	3. Chapter 3

Awareness pricked Sam's mind, and even before he opened his eyes, he could sense the light in the room. The threadbare curtain might as well have not even been drawn across the window. Morning light streamed through it and made the room much brighter than it would have been with a better curtain. Sam allowed himself a long, deep stretch of his limbs, feeling his blood coursing through them. He finally opened his eyes and glanced across to the other bed in the motel, expecting to see Dean still asleep. When he focused on the fact the bed was empty, his ears picked up the sound of running water. His brother was in the shower. That was actually perfect. Sam hefted himself to his feet and traded his sleep pants for a pair of jeans. He finished dressing quickly and grabbed the keys to the Impala before slipping out the door of the hotel.

It was a short jaunt to the nearest gas station to pick up coffee. Short enough, even, that he could have walked, but the car needed gas too since they had skipped that in favor of driving straight to the diner the day before, so he made a trip of it. They'd find another diner of some sort for breakfast later, but coffee was always a priority. While standing at the gas pump, he took the time to think on what their next move should be. Identifying the monster last night as a kiv'dah was only the first step. Now they needed to figure out who it was and how to stop them.

They were fortunate this was happening in a relatively small town as opposed to a larger city because Sam's best idea was to look into new residents. The reports of headaches had started about three weeks ago. When first hearing about it, it had seemed ridiculous to Sam that people would actually go to the Emergency Room for a headache, but after making some followup calls to Clemment, he had found that the headaches were topping the pain scale for most of the people who went in. And for one Agnes Praxy, they went beyond debilitating and straight to lethal. Clemment had called them 'positional headaches' which meant laying down and resting allowed most people to feel better, though standing up and going about to their business brought the headaches back. It made Sam wonder how many people had simply laid down for a nap instead of going to the hospital. It raised the possibility of more victims. A lot more.

For now, though, they could only work with what they knew of the people who had gone to the hospital. Clemment had told them that all of the victims were from Curtis, rather than the larger town of Gothenburg, where the hospital was. Curtis had a medical clinic, but it was too small to have a full blown Emergency Room and hospital. Once again, he thanked the good fortune that allowed this to happen in a small town. He needed to cross reference the victims' interactions on the days of their headaches with who might be new in town. That meant first accessing public records. That would mean just a quick hack into the city records. Not a problem there.

Sam was feeling pretty good about this case. It was actually kind of neat to be learning about a new type of monster first hand. With only one death and the fact he had simply overheard it in a short conversation, it had been a bit of an argument to get Dean involved. This may very well turn out to be their newest low bar for "We've looked into less." They couldn't get much less than headaches that don't kill people, well, aside from one elderly lady who wouldn't have died if she hadn't been so old. The thought made Sam sigh. It was regretful that she had died, but otherwise, Sam knew he and Dean wouldn't be here.

He hung up the gas nozzle just as his phone vibrated in his pocket. A quick check revealed a text from Dean:

_D: You didn't get started without me did you?_

_S: Getting gas, thinking about having breakfast._

_D: At least you're not getting breakfast and thinking about having gas._

_S: Seriously...?_

_D: Btw, if you eat without me, I will kill you._

_S: Be outside when I get back._

_S: With my laptop._

Sam stuffed the phone back into his pocket and discarded the idea of getting coffee. He drove the less than half a mile to get his brother. He knew better than to suggest Dean walk to the diner he had seen on the way to the gas station. His brother would not have taken kindly to the notion of having to walk when Sam had his car just minutes down the road.

As requested, Dean was standing in the parking lot of the hotel when Sam arrived. As he climbed into the passenger seat and tossed the laptop in the space between them, he made an audible sniff and eyed the cup holders. "No coffee?" he asked. Sam rolled his eyes at Dean's smirk and guided the car back out onto the road.

 

.oOo.

 

Martha Jo's didn't look like much from the outside, but then, some of the best places never did. This was one of those 'best places.' It started with fresh-tasting coffee from a good-natured woman who carried her forties well and only got better from there. Dean was served the biggest helpings of breakfast he had ever ordered from a restaurant. He asked for biscuits and gravy with a double side of bacon, and by damn, he got Biscuits and Gravy with a Double side of BACON. He snickered at Sam's wide eyes when his scrambled eggs and buttered toast hit the table and it looked like three hens had worked over time into making sure he got his breakfast. The waitress, whose name tag identified her as Jenn, topped off their coffee cups and gave Dean a little wink -which he accepted with a grin- before she walked away. Dean enjoyed the view as she did. Dreams be damned; sometimes it was nice to take in the sights of the real world.

Sam clearing his throat brought his attention back to the table. He ignored his little brother's mock annoyance and unrolled the silverware from his napkin as they got down to the business of the case. "So, what did you call this thing?"

"Kiv'dah," Sam answered. He followed Dean's lead with the silverware.

"Keev-dah," Dean echoed, drawing out the first syllable. "What do we know about them?"

"Creatures from Eastern European lore. The stories can't agree on which country they originate from, but most of the stories put them from either Hungary or Slovakia. Which actually kinda makes sense, given the struggles between those two countries. Chances are good there are quite a few old stories from that region that we can't place to one country or the other by now..." Sam trailed off at Dean's expression.

"I didn't ask for a history lesson."

Sam cleared his throat. "Right. So the kiv'dah feed off of cerebrospinal fluid. Apparently, the closer to the brain, the more sustaining. Obviously, though, it's difficult to harvest something inside of the skull without damaging the host." He paused to take a bite. "Some kiv'dah don't really care about that and don't have a problem with killing their victims, but for those who want to stay integrated with their human community, they'll pull small amounts of CSF from lower on the spine. Less sustaining, which means harvesting from multiple people. It keeps their victims alive, but as we know, it also causes headaches. Back in the day, kiv'dah were burned as witches because people would figure out that they'd only get headaches after visiting with certain individuals. It didn't take much to be accused of witchcraft back then."

"Yeah, I'd say we've been around enough witches to know that their nasty habits can give you a headache, but not because you're having brain juice sucked out of your spine." Dean thought for a moment. "Hey, how do they suck it out anyway?"

"Retractable appendage at the inner bend of the elbow," Sam replied, tapping at his own inner arm with two fingers like he was testing for a vein. "It's tipped with a proboscis, like a mosquito's, only it's long enough to reach into the spine rather than just under the skin."

Dean made a disgusted face. "Funky. So now we need to find out who's proboscising people."

"You... have a way of making things sound dirty," Sam grimaced into his coffee cup.

"It's one of my many charms," Dean replied with a grin before forking more food into his mouth. "So finding whoever this is, is only step one. Before we do that, we should probably figure out how the hell to gank 'em."

"As to that..." Sam opened the laptop Dean had grabbed for him. After some typing and scrolling, he pulled up a webpage and turned the screen to face Dean.

"Well that's one of the coolest things I've seen in a while," Dean said, regarding the image of a cool-looking spear-like thing before him. He leaned closer to see the small print accompanying the picture. "'Never primarily used for combat, the spontoon was introduced to armies as a new symbol of officer rank.' Spontoon?"

 

 

"Basically a half-pike with a cross brace," Sam explained. "It's a European weapon that came into existence shortly before the gun, so it didn't really get used much before firearms took over in warfare. Basic history will say that since they were already made -and often ornately so- officers carried them to show off how important they were, but the actual lore says something else."

"I'm listening."

"See the fancy scrollwork that's etched into the blade?" Sam tapped the top edge of the laptop, pulling Dean's attention back to the picture. "It's not just for decoration; hidden within all of that is spellwork. A surprising number of officers were kiv'dah, and they used these sigil-etched weapons on each other."

"But carrying them pretty much made targets of themselves."

Sam shrugged and closed his laptop, sliding it back into its bag. "That too, which is how they very nearly wiped themselves out without any hunters getting involved. According to what I could dig up, they're pretty rare these days."

"So where the hell are we gonna get our hands on a spontoon -one that's actually been marked with spellwork- in Middle of Nowhere, Nebraska?"

"It may be easier than you think," Sam replied. Dean look at him, expectantly. "Get this, traditionally, even though these wars are a thing of the long-ago past, a kiv'dah will keep a spontoon in their belongs. Whether in arrogance or just for safe keeping in case another comes along, I don't know, but assuming tradition holds, when we find the kiv'dah, we should be able to find the weapon that kills it."

"Well damn," Dean said. "I guess our next move is identifying our monster. I'm thinking we should find out who's new in town since this only started happening recently."

"My thought exactly," Sam agreed. "It'll only take a few minutes to get access to the town records." He patted his laptop bag. "Then maybe we can talk to locals. It shouldn't take any time at all to get some names; this place seems small enough for everyone to know everyone."

"You ain't wrong, honey," Jenn said, having arrived at their table to offer coffee refills just in time to hear the tail of Sam's comment. "Who're you looking for? I might can help you out."

"People new to the area," Dean answered. "Know of anybody?"

"Oh sure!" She tipped steaming coffee into Dean's mug. "A couple moved up here about a month ago..."

 

_Jenn saw the couple come in and let them get settled into their seats before buzzing over to their table. "Afternoon!" she chirped. "Welcome to Martha Jo's. Can I get ya'll something to drink?"_

_"Hot tea," the woman requested. She had one forearm propped along the edge of the table and used the other hand to push the ends of her brown hair behind her shoulder as she looked up at her with hazel eyes that Jenn thought were very pretty. "Ya'll got Earl Grey by any chance?"_

_"Mmm, not sure. I don't know that anyone's ever asked for it. I'll have to check. And you?" she asked the husband._

_"Water please," he replied quietly. Jenn examined him as well. Broad of shoulder with strong arms, this one, with impeccable posture. He carried an air of respect around him._

 

"Jenn," Sam said. She cut off and looked at the taller brother. "We appreciate the play-by-play, but can you tell us where we can find them? What their names are, maybe?"

"Their names? Megan and Art. Fischer."

 

_Lunch plates had been cleared away, but Jenn had a way of getting people to open up to her, and Megan was talking up a storm. "Been a lifelong dream of mine, to teach at a University. And it's finally happenin'. That's why we moved out here. It took forever since I still had to be workin' on the farm while I was takin' classes, but I finally got my degree in horticulture, now I get to do somethin' with it."_

_"And what about you, hon?" Jenn asked Art. "What do you do while your lovely wife teaches?"_

_A small, ghost of a smile tugged at one corner of Art's mouth. He hadn't been as forthcoming in his chatter like Megan was. Even this reply was shrouded. "I find ways to keep busy."_

 

Sam looked across the table at Dean, and Dean knew the expression. He had the same suspicion; they needed to find out more about Art Fischer.

"Part of what I like about my job is watching people interact with each other," Jenn continued, eyes flicking between the two men. "Even when I wasn't at their table, talking to them, I was watching. The way he looked at her... You can just tell when a man is in love, you know? It was beautiful."


	4. Chapter 4

With their first set of names already on hand, the brothers held off on checking public records for the time being. Dean took the driver's seat this time and pointed the Impala toward the college at the Northeastern part of town. They didn't know where to find Art Fischer just yet, but they did know where to find his wife, Megan.

"Seems as good a start as any," Sam began. "This guy arrived in town around the same time the headaches started. He's physically built to possibly overwhelm potential victims, and he won't talk about what he does, which, at this point, gives him wiggle room to be anywhere around town at any given time."

"We can't ignore his wife, though," Dean replied. "How many times have we looked at someone, only to find out the monster was their spouse? And if she's teaching at the college, she's around all sorts of people all day long."

"Could be both," Sam suggested.

"Could be both," Dean agreed.

Like everything else about the town, the campus was small. They drove past a couple of important-looking buildings before finding a parking lot and had to walk back the way they came. Sam took the lead, having navigated the Stanford campus in the short time he had attended. He wasted no time in stepping inside a building to find a directory to locate Professor Fischer. Luck was on their side; her office was in the same building, on the third story.

"Now if only she's in there and not in a classroom somewhere," Dean murmured, trailing Sam as he struck out to find an elevator.

A few minutes later, they were standing in front of a heavy, oak door which boasted a tiny window to reveal a dark brown head bent over a desk, and a name plate identifying the occupant as Professor M. Fischer. Dean rapped his knuckles against the door and turned the knob without waiting for a response. The door opened inward; Dean entered, followed closely by Sam. The woman at the desk didn't bother to look up from the papers before her, but she did tap at the desktop with a pen.

"Office hours're posted in the hall. Come back later."

"Professor Fischer?" Dean asked.

She raised a look of annoyance up to them and shifted in her seat, arching her back as though she had been bent over the papers for quite a while, and whether she welcomed the interruption or not, her body seemed grateful to move a little bit. "Was there somethin' I said that you didn't understand?"

Dean raised an eyebrow. He used the back of his hand to tap Sam's upper arm, and his brother took his cue. Both of them reached into their pockets to withdraw their badges and flip them open at the same time, revealing twins of large, bold, blue letters. FBI. "We understood you just fine," he replied, not bothering to use his fake name to introduce himself. Something flitted behind the hazel eyes looking up from the desk. Dean took it as a good sign. "And now I think you understand us." He and Sam tucked their badges away, another move they performed at the same time. They never actually practiced it -that would be a little much- but over the years, they had honed it to look smooth as hell.

"Before we get started, Professor Fischer," Sam said in that soft, reasonable voice he had, moving from behind Dean's shoulder to stand next to him, "can you tell us where can we find your husband?"

That look, that same hesitancy, passed through her eyes again. This time, she wasn't able to push it away as quickly. It dug the hook even deeper into Dean. She was acting suspicious of something. "Why?"

"We'll be needing to ask him some questions too," Dean stated.

Professor Fischer sighed and dropped her chin to her chest. Her right elbow propped on the desk, and she used that hand to rub at her forehead with her fingertips. Eyes closed, she spoke softly. "Don't bother. He ain't a parta this." She spread her fingers and ran them through her hair, pushing it back from her face as she tilted it up to look at the brothers again. It was a move Dean had seen Sam perform many times with his own long locks. "N'fact, he tried to keep me from bringin' it with me."

Bringing it with her? Dean's good feeling ebbed, and instead, he started to get a new feeling that this wasn't what he had expected it would be. Still, he had to play the game in hopes something they needed would shake loose. "If you want to keep him out of it, you need to talk to us right now," he said firmly.

Professor Fischer leaned back, and her leather chair creaked as it reclined with the movement. She crossed her arms under her breasts. "I could jus' ask for my lawyer," she challenged, giving Dean very direct eye contact.

"You could," Sam allowed. Dean glanced over at him then back at the professor who had shifted her eyes to Sam also. "But then I guarantee Art will be involved, and you'll both take heat for this." Sam had grasped the change of situation as well. Something was off; the Fischers were involved in something sketchy, but it was looking less and less likely that either of them were sucking spinal fluids.

Another sigh floated across the room. "I talk, an' you leave Art outta this?" she asked.

"As long as it's clear he hasn't been involved at all," Sam replied evenly.

"Fine." Professor Fischer slumped further in her seat. She took a deep breath then sat up again, seeming to steel herself against what she was about to say. "It jus' started with some shit-talkin' on the farm back in North Carolina. Some'a the workers was tellin' me that if I put some plants right next to the 'maters that they'd look just alike and no one'd know the difference. I told 'em they were stupid, but they kept on insistin'. In hin'sight, I figure it was a ploy to get me to grow for 'em. After I got the plants growin' real good in the green house with the younger 'maters, I'd find bits of the flowers gettin' snipped off."

The pieces clicked in place for Dean, and it was suddenly very clear to him that this was not their suspect. A quick, silent exchange with Sam revealed knowledge on his face too. Dean opened his mouth to excuse them from the room, but Sam spoke first. "Once you realized you were being used like that, why did you keep growing them?" Dean shot him a look, but Sam stayed focused on the professor.

"I'm a farmer," she replied, as though the answer was obvious. "I grow things; s'what I do. 'Sides, by then, I had already started playin' with makin' hybrids of my own. An' I was lockin' the green house so no more of it could be stolen."

"You weren't afraid that would cause the workers to turn you in?" Dean asked.

"Naw, they'd be out a job," the professor said, shaking her head. "They couldn't risk it."

"You said your husband didn't want you to bring it to Nebraska," Sam prompted.

"An' I didn't; not exactly." Her response was weak, and it was met only with a tilt of Sam's head and a twitch of his brow. She looked down at her hands, where she had started picking at a fingernail. "We had a big goin' away party 'fore we left, complete with a bon fire. All my plants got thrown in." Based on the lowered volume of her voice and her expression as she looked up again, she mourned the loss. "But I had saved seeds, an' soon as we got here, I put 'em in some seed starter. Art didn't want me to, said I had already played enough in North Carolina, an' it's jus' as illegal to grow it here as it was there."

"Why did you decide to grow it here?" Dean knew the answer to his question wasn't important, but at this point, he was genuinely curious.

"It's fun," she insisted. "I don't know how t'explain it if you don't do it. Growin' and raisin' plants jus' feels good to me; it feeds my soul. These grow quick and easy, so it's a good plant to play with 'cause it's damn near instant gratification while the other plants -the food growers- are still reachin' maturity."

"That's it?" Sam asked. "There's no other reason for growing it? Not for use by you or anyone else? You weren't selling it?"

"Oh, nuh-uh. I ain't got no need for usin', and I sure as hell ain't gonna sell it. It's jus' for the fun of growin'; promise."

Dean shifted his feet. They were wasting time, but he understood why Sam was asking the questions. It was curiosity's sake, yes, but not just that. If they gave the impression they were here for this reason, they'd be able to make a graceful exit without raising any eyebrows. Sam had had the right of it by taking lead and not letting Dean make up some bullshit excuse to leave when they realized what Megan Fischer was really up to.

"Just a couple more questions, Professor. Did you start with plants or seeds?" Sam asked.

Professor Fischer scoffed. "What self-respectin' farmer starts with plants somebody else grew? 'Course I used seeds."

"And can you give me the scientific name of the seeds you started with?" He held his hands in front of himself, ready to write it down. She blinked at him. Dean did too; when had he pulled out a pen and pad?

"Are you serious?" her tone was skeptical.

"I need it stated officially."

Dean hid a smile at his brother's comment.  _ Stated officially my ass, _ he thought.  _ He just wants to hear her say it. _

"Yeah, I guess you do," she sighed. "Well, I didn't grow just one; can't play around and make hybrids like that. I had Cannabis sativa, Cannabis indica, and Cannabis ruderalis."


	5. Chapter 5

"A pot-growing professor in the middle of backroad Nebraska," Dean murmured with a shake of his head as he pointed the Impala away from the college. "I want to say it's crazy, but it actually kinda makes sense."

Sam smirked in the seat next to him, his thumb gracing the face of his phone. He pressed it to his ear without a word. Dean stayed quiet; Sam was likely listening to his voicemail.

"It's Clemment," Sam confirmed without having to be asked. He listened to the whole of the message then hung up. "Another patient was admitted while we were talking to the professor."

"Which means someone else was sucking on people while we were spinning our wheels." Dean smacked the steering wheel with the heel of his palm. Sam didn't reply, and Dean knew there was nothing to say. He accepted his brother's silence and kept driving, making no turns until the road ended at a T. He turned left, taking them South. He took the very next left.

"Are we just criss-crossing the town?" Sam asked.

"This place is -what?- maybe a full square mile?" Dean answered, head swiveling at the intersection of each block to see up and down the roads they were crossing. "I'm narrowing it down to the commercial buildings. With this many victims, it has to be happening in a public place, not a residence." He turned right at the next T and right again. "Unless you have another idea."

Sam shook his head. "No, I think you're right..."

"...But?" Dean knew the sound of his brother's open-ended sentence.

"Nothing; I just thought for a minute it could be on a farm instead, but then I imagined an eighty-one-year-old woman shoveling manure and changed my mind."

Dean barked a laugh. "Yeah, I don't think old Agnes was attacked on a farm. Hm, but maybe..." he eased off the gas a little -which was redundant when the speed limit was only twenty in this pinprick of a town- he looked down an unmarked dirt lane as he passed it. "Maybe instead of going to a farm, the farm came to us." Another block down, a large, hay-laden tractor-looking thing was parked behind a building too big to be a house. Dean was willing to admit to himself he didn't know much about farm equipment; they were all tractors as far as he was concerned.

"Huh," Sam let out with a breath.

Another two lefts turned the car around, and instead of making a full cross of the town again, Dean turned onto Center Avenue and parked in front of the building labeled Town & Country Market. To one side of it was an empty and unadorned, two story brick building with three windows that looked like heavy-lidded eyes. To the other was an open-sided, fresh air farmer's market. How many farmer's markets could be in one small town? It had to be where Agnes Praxy had collapsed.

The brothers climbed out of the car and headed inside the Market. The top of the door hit a tiny bell suspended from the door frame as Dean pushed it open. The resulting tinkle didn't bring a barrage of "Welcome!" shouts as it had at the first diner, for which Dean was grateful. The place was an odd mix between a convenience store and a grocery store. The many aisles had shelves low enough to see over, much like a gas station, but they seemed to have more than the small selection of low quality road food Dean was used to. Two of the outer walls were lined with glass-faced coolers, the sections labeled in large letters on the wall above them: Dairy, Juice, Beer, Meat, Frozen. A double-hinged door broke the line of glass on the back wall, the grey color stark against the brightly lit sections. The third wall was open refrigeration of cold produce, right next to two pairs of double glass doors that led out to the farmer's market. There was only one register, and that unoccupied, on an island near the front door. Music was playing softly from an old stereo sitting on the counter next to it. Dean paused long enough to catch the tune; it was Travis Tritt's "Lord Have Mercy On the Working Man." He flicked his brow up and rolled his eyes at the horrible cliché of early nineties country in a place like this. It was almost too good.

At the moment, there was only one other person in the store. Dean saw the arm and leg of someone squatting next to an open soda cooler, pulling bottles from a plastic pallet and stocking them into the cooler. He glanced at Sam and tilted his head toward the doors in the produce section. Sam nodded and headed toward them. There were more people outside, and they both knew Sam was the better of the two to go talk to people over rabbit food. As Sam pushed through the double doors, Dean edged his way around to the stock boy. "Morning," he greeted.

 

 

 

Dark green eyes looked up from a face surrounded by shaggy, mid-length brown hair. "Hi." The broad nose, easy smile, and dimpled chin made Dean do a double-take.  _ Son of a bitch, he looks like a teenage Sammy. _ It was the bright, clear face of the kid he had known not too long before he disappeared to Stanford, his whole life ahead of him, if only he could stay away from the monsters. And they knew how well that had worked out. He actually had to swallow and clear his throat before he could speak again, but as he opened his mouth, a bang from the back of the store grabbed his attention.

A short woman with permed salt and pepper cotton ball hair bustled through the grey door. Large, pink rimmed bifocals perched low on her narrow nose with a slim, ball chain connecting the arms behind her head and trailing to her shoulders. Her sharp, brown eyes locked on Dean immediately, and she grinned. "Welcome, honey!" she drawled as she approached. "Is there anythin' I can help you find?"

Dean glanced back down at the stock boy who had gone back to focusing on his job. A stack of empty drink pallets sat next to him, and he was busily emptying the last into the cooler. He looked back at the woman. As she neared, he estimated her age to be somewhere in her sixties. "Me and my brother are staying for a couple of nights. Just wanted to grab some provisions. I think I'll just browse around for a bit and see what looks good."

"Of course, of course. Well, if you need anythin', you just let me know, okay sugar?"

"You got it," Dean agreed. He watched out of the corner of his eye as the stock boy gathered the empty pallets into his arms and stood. He was taller than Dean, probably close to Sam's height. Uncanny.

"I'm all done," the boy said to the woman.

She smiled warmly. "Okay, honey, you enjoy your break."

Without another word, he carried the pallets to the grey door the woman had used, pushed it open with his shoulder, and disappeared to the other side. The door wavered back and forth with a repeated whoosh-whoosh until it ran out of momentum.

"So this is a pretty small town," Dean mused as he made his way closer to the woman who had perched herself on a three-legged stool behind the register.

"Most out-of-towners don't notice how small," she replied with a small chuckle. "With the diner, hotel, and gas station right on the highway, not a lot of people have reason to come further in."

"Mmm, the diner. You mean Martha Jo's?" Dean patted his stomach. "After breakfast there, I'm almost thinking about skipping lunch." His comment pulled another small laugh from her. "And our waitress, Jenn?" She nodded. "Sweet lady."

"Sure is. I just adore Jenn. Y'know, she's been workin' at Martha Jo's since she was, oh, about Daniel's age." The woman motioned to the grey door the boy had gone through when she said the name.

Dean thumbed at the same door, "The stock boy?"

"Mmhmm. Been tryin' to get him to let me call him Danny- Oh! Where are my manners? My name's Fanny. Everyone 'round here calls me Aunt Fanny. But that's why I tried to get Daniel to let me call him Danny. Fanny and Danny." She grinned. "But he ain't too keen on it, so I had to stop pesterin' him. No need to make him hate showin' up to work for a silly thing like a name."

"Yeah," Dean agreed. "Do you think something like that would set him off?"

"Well, I don't know about 'set 'im off' really, but he's not in a position for me to be pickin' on 'im."

"What do you mean?"

Aunt Fanny craned her neck to look to the back of the store at the grey door through which Daniel had disappeared. When she was satisfied it was closed, she turned back to Dean. "Daniel hasn't lived what one could call an easy life."

"Trouble at home?" Dean asked.

"Not at the moment," Aunt Fanny replied, earning a raised eyebrow from Dean. "He's gettin' settled in with the Bartons well enough, but word is, this is his seventh foster family."

Dean flinched at that. It brought back memories of the time he spent at the boy's home when he was sixteen, and it made him wonder how many different homes he and Sam would have bounced through had Dad never come back from one of his hunting trips. Would they have even been allowed to stay together? He knew he would have raised all kinds of hell if they had taken Sammy away from him. He pushed those thoughts away. "Why so many? Daniel a trouble maker or something?"

"You couldn't prove it by me. Insofar as I can tell, he's a good kid. He's kind, helpful, has a strong work ethic. No one quite knows why he hasn't stayed with anyone for very long. It's a little surprisin', really, that I haven't found out yet."

"Is it? Why?"

Aunt Fanny gestured toward the four glass doors Sam had taken into the farmer's market. On the other side, Dean could see people milling through vegetable-laden stalls.

"Ah, small town living, huh?" Dean asked.

"That's right. Small town like this, everyone knows everythin' about everyone. Y'can't even spit on the sidewalk without the pastor findin' out about it."

"Naturally. So I guess everyone's been talking about the headaches then, huh?"

"Hard not to," Aunt Fanny replied with a nod. "Everyone wants somethin' to blame, but no one knows where to point their fingers. Everythin' from dehydration to bad food to bein' overworked -or overstudyin' in the college students' cases-; some folks is even blamin' climate change. It's gotten a little out of hand, in my opinion."

"What do you think it is?" Dean asked.

"Faw! I've learned better than to voice an opinion even in an empty room, 'less someone pops up from behind a piece of furniture to debate it."

Dean accepted her refusal to guess and redirected the topic a little. "I've heard that Mrs. Agnes Praxy passed away from her headache. But, forgive me for saying it, no one seems to be too broken up about it."

A sadness crept across Fanny's face, and Dean watched as she forced a smile, despite the sorrow in her eyes. "We're tryin' not to be."

"How so?"

"Agnes was a dear friend of mine, and she was a pillar in the community. Always contributin' to the church, volunteered up at the hospital in Gothenburg, just an all-around beautiful soul. She never wanted nobody to hurt, y'know?"

Dean nodded and stayed quiet as Aunt Fanny's eyes looked inward as she remembered her friend.

"Even in death, she didn't want no one to hurt. In her Will, she asked to not be mourned but to be celebrated. That any time we start to get sad about her passin', we remember happy times and rejoice in love instead. We're honorin' her memory by remainin' positive and bein' kind to one another."

Dean couldn't help but smile. "I respect that," he said softly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for this. My brain attempted a GG crossover, and I was able to fight it only so far because I'm not always in control. So Daniel is basically Dean Forrester. So sorry. Really. Please don't abandon me.


	6. Chapter 6

Sam left Dean inside and made his way into the farmer's market. The blue and white striped canopy overhead was thick and sturdy, the metal framework built for sustainability. Even if the market wasn't open year round -surely it was closed during the winter months- Sam suspected the canopy never came down. Stalls made lanes across the hard-packed dirt where generations of feet had trod down shallow grooves of walking paths between them. The whole place was abuzz with activity; people here obviously preferred the fresh foods grown locally to the boxed and canned goods in the store. His eyes flicked along the stalls covered with ripe vegetables, and he understood why and approved. It made him want to look into where he might find a local farmer's market near the Bunker once he and Dean got back home.

As he admired a cascading pile of heirloom tomatoes, he mused over how he would never be able to get Dean to enjoy something fresh like that. It wasn't from lack of trying on Sam's part, but his older brother continued to shun most things healthy. The seller behind the stall, an older gentleman in a cowboy hat, was engaged with someone else, haggling over zucchini prices. Sam stepped away without really looking where he was headed and collided with a traveling box of green beans. The box smashed between him and the person holding it, wildly spilling a veritable explosion of beans on the ground all around them.

"Oof!" came a surprised reaction below him.

"I'm so sorry," Sam immediately professed. The head of a rather short woman tilted way up to see Sam's face from under the brim of a well-worn, green trucker's cap. A faded image on the front was lost to years of wear. Startled blue eyes found Sam's face, and it immediately struck Sam just how pale they were, like the pale blue just before a sunrise, when the sky was almost white. Before he could stare too hard, he found his voice again. "I didn't see you."

"Well, ya see me now," came her reply.

"Ah, yeah. Yeah," Sam stammered, feeling a little embarrassed. "Here, let me help you." He knelt down to gather the fallen green beans from the dusty ground. They were spread in a wide arc around both of them. She knelt with him, placing the somewhat crumpled box on the ground between herself and Sam. "I'm really sorry," Sam said again.

"S'no big deal. Comes with the territory of being short."

"How tall are you?" Sam asked. Her laughter made him want to pull the question back into his mouth.

"You first, Gigantes," she smirked, dropping beans in the box and reaching for more.

"What?" Sam blinked at the Greek giant reference.

"How tall are  _ you _ ?"

"Six-four."

She let out a low whistle between soft-looking pink lips and nodded. "Four-eleven and a half."

"And a half?" Sam raised his eyebrows and couldn't hide an amused grin.

"Hey, when you're as short as I am, you take every bit you can claim." Her reply was given with her own smile, and Sam knew she wasn't bothered. She reached for the box, and Sam placed his hands over her much smaller ones, stopping her from lifting it.

"May I?"

She smirked again, looking up with those incredible eyes. "Don't let the height fool you, Gigantes. I can carry heavier things than this."

"I'm not questioning that. I just want to make up for spilling the beans."

She laughed aloud at that. "The best part is you really didn't mean that pun at all." She slid her hands out from under Sam's, relinquishing her hold on the box. "Okay, I'll allow it. Follow me." She stood gracefully and moved around Sam, leading the way she had been going when he bumped into her. He followed, crumpled box of beans in arms, eyes going back to skimming through the market as well as making sure he didn't lose sight of the short blonde hair barely peeking out of the back of the faded green cap. Walking behind, Sam's gaze spent less time around the market and more on her, picking out details. There were patches of blue and green hidden in her hair and his hair was longer than hers. She wore a grey and lilac plaid shirt tied to reveal just the barest hint of tanned skin above the waistband of her jeans. She led him to the row of produce stalls that stood near the back of the building and past them, into the dirt and gravel that made up a makeshift parking lot in the alley behind the Market. Once out from under the shade of the canopy, she made her way to the back of an early '80s Toyota pickup truck, one of many trucks in a line. The green paint was just as faded as her cap and was chipped in some places, exposing rust underneath. She opened the tailgate, which argued the act with a metallic groan, and motioned for Sam to load the beans into the open bed.

"Green hat, green truck, green hair, green beans..." Sam trailed off, letting her make of his comment as she would. He carefully slid the beans into the scratched and dented bed, making sure to not damage the box further.

More laughter spilled from her lips. Sam found he was rather enjoying the sound of her laugh. He knew he wasn't that funny, though. Maybe she was just one of those people who likes to laugh? "The beans are coincidence, but green does happen to be my favorite color." She closed the noisy tailgate and grinned up at Sam again. The way she looked at him brought the thought that he had green eyes to the front of his mind, and he wondered if they could make the list of her favorite things. She skirted around Sam and made her way to the driver's side door, opened it, and paused. "What's your name, tall, dark, and handsome? I can't keep calling you Gigantes in my head. Well, I could. I probably will. But a real name would be nice too."

"Sam. I'm Sam." He offered his hand.

"Isabelle," she took his hand in a firm handshake, and Sam was glad she hadn't given him the limp, fingers-only thing so many women seemed to favor. Her hand was slightly callused, roughened with years of hard work. After a couple pumps, instead of letting go, she pulled down on his hand. Sam could have fought and won, but he leaned down, letting her lead his upper body to hers. Isabelle planted a soft kiss on his cheek and pulled back enough to look into his eyes again. She smiled at him, and Sam had to smile back. "Thanks for running into me, Sam." She let go of his hand and turned to get into her truck.

"Do you live around here?" Sam blurted. Though she didn't seem like a local, he had to ask. Isabelle used the inside of the open window to boost herself into a seat that was at the right height for Sam to simply slide sideways into. She reached up to the sun visor and dropped it down to spill a set of keys into her waiting hand.

"Nope; my place is a little further out." She rattled the keys between them playfully before choosing the correct key and sliding it into the ignition. "But I swing by once a week to either sell some of my goods or to see if there's any veggies worth canning. Will you still be here next week?"

"Probably not," he replied.

"Too bad." Isabelle gave him a mock pout and closed the door with a creak that sounded not unlike the same protest Dean's Impala's doors made and pursed her pink lips into a mock pout before grinning again. Sam could get used to that smile being aimed at him. "It's been a pleasure, Sam. Take care of yourself. Try not to get any headaches." Hearing her mention the headaches shocked Sam into remembering why he had been wandering through the farmer's market to begin with. Isabelle's pale, blue eyes, bright laughter, and cute smile had distracted him. She turned over the engine, the lurching rumble drowning out Sam's next question.

"Wait, what do you know about the headaches?" Sam took a few steps forward as she kicked the truck into reverse, trying to stay near enough to her so his voice would reach inside the truck.

"Bye," Isabelle shifted the Toyota into drive and left with a wave. Sam was left in a cloud of hazy, gray dust, uncertain whether she had even heard him over the engine or the crunch of gravel under the wheels.

He turned away after her truck disappeared around the corner and looked down along the line of pickup trucks. Did nobody shopping here drive any other type of car? At the very end of the line sat the tractor that had initially drawn the brothers to the Market. It was directly across the parking area from the back corner of the canopy covering the produce stalls. In that corner sat stacks of hay bales neatly piled in a metal trailer next to shaded stalls boasting precariously stacked piles of cantaloupes, watermelons, and multi-colored chicken eggs. Leaning against the building on the shaded side of the corner was a man in a gray v-neck shirt -which Sam could appreciate since the cut was a comfortable favorite of his- and slightly faded blue jeans.

Sam studied the guy as he walked toward him. His wavy brown hair showed growth of someone who used to keep it short but hadn't bothered with a hair cut in a while. It covered the tops of his ears and ran down into a beard that fully covered his upper lip and chin. He hardly looked like the stereotype of a farmer, and that trailer could have been hitched to any of the pickups, but Sam suspected this guy was the one who had driven the tractor.

Before Sam was halfway across the small lot, a door with peeling, white paint on the back of the building opened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Another-another original character! They just keep piling on, don't they? Isabelle's physique is modeled after someone I went to college with who actually was 4'11.5" and claimed that extra half inch with pride. She played the baritone saxophone in our marching band, and it was the cutest thing to see her carrying an instrument almost as tall as she was. This one's for you, K!


	7. Chapter 7

Dean blinked against the flash of sunlight that filled his eyes after the dimness of the back room of the store. He had used the excuse of searching for the restroom to go through what was obviously a space for employees. Oddly, he hadn't seen Daniel, the Sam lookalike, back there. As his eyes adjusted to the brightness, the first person he saw was Sam. For some reason, he was in the parking lot, but he was heading back to the shade of the striped canopy. Dean's eyes flicked to where Sam was looking, and he saw his brother was aiming toward a guy next to a bunch of hay bales and fruit. Dean stepped out of the doorway and let the door close behind him. He made his way along the back of the building and met Sam at the fruit stand. Sam gave him a nod of greeting, and Dean turned his attention to the food on the tables. He flicked one of the cantaloupes, producing a hollow thump, and addressed the brown-haired guy. "Some nice melons you have here."

He took his hands from his pockets and folded them across his chest. "I bet you say that to all the girls," he drawled.

Dean blinked and had to look twice to see the bit of a smile tugging at the edge of man's mouth, and along with Sam's snickering, he realized it was a joke. He allowed himself a smirk in return. He eyed the guy, taking in the spread of his shoulders, the swell of his arms. There was something about his posture that tugged at Dean's memory of his dad.

"Military?" he asked.

"Former," the man replied.

"What branch?"

"Corps."

The answer split Dean's face into a proud grin. "So was my dad. He was a Corporal in Echo 2/1. You?"

Dean's smile wasn't returned; if anything, the tiny grin that had been ghosting the guy's lips faded. Gray-ish brown eyes met his with the reply of, "I don't talk about my time in service. It's in the past. I'm a farmer now." Dean accepted this answer with a nod, but it bothered him. His dad had often said  _ Once a Marine, always a Marine. _ It was strange to hear someone say he wasn't a Marine anymore.

A buzzing sound vibrated the air, and the guy reached into his pocket to withdraw a phone. "Hey Meg." Dean shared a glance with Sam. "Mm hmm. ... There's a good possibility they're standing in front of me right now." Dean watched as his eyes raked Sam from head to toe, obviously taking in details as his wife spoke to him. "Yep." Then he turned his attention to Dean, studying him as well. "Yep," he said again before casting his eyes to the dirt, dismissing the brothers. He listened for another minute, then his face softened into a gentle smile. "Then you don't have anything to worry about. ... ... I really don't. ... It's okay, sweetheart. ... I love you too. 'Bye." He put his phone back into his pocket and crossed his arms over his chest again.

"Art Fischer, I take it," Sam asked.

Art nodded. "Sounds like you got my wife pretty shaken." He examined both brothers once more. "Is there a reason you were looking for me first when this was obviously her venture?"

Dean's mind raced. Telling him they were trying to figure out if he was some spinal fluid-sucking monster was probably a bad idea, particularly if turned out he was, indeed, the one they were looking for. He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue and opened his mouth to let a lie -any lie- spill out.

"That's irrelevant now that we know it was the professor who led the, um, operation," Sam said first. Dean exchanged a glance with his brother and closed his mouth, letting him take lead on this one as well. "But we do still have some questions for you, if you don't mind."

"I'll answer what I can," Art replied. "But I'm fairly certain you told my wife you wouldn't bother me if she answered all of your questions."

"Just call it a follow-up," Dean said brusquely.

Sam cleared his throat. "We need you to outline a basic day for yourself. What you do, where you go. Just your normal routine for any given day."

"What does this have to do with Megan's plants?"

"Humor me. And if you tell me what I think you will, then you have nothing to worry about."

Dean almost smiled at Sam's echo of what Art had said on the phone.  _ Nice play, little brother. _

Art talked; Dean and Sam listened.

 

.oOo.

 

Back in the hotel room, Dean set the six pack of El Sol and a bag of snacks on a little table as soon as he walked inside. Sam trailed after him, shutting the door behind himself and double checking to make sure it was locked. He was still shaking his head as he deposited a bag of produce and a case of plastic water bottles on the table too.

"Dude, he really did look just like me."

"I know." Dean opened a beer bottle and offered it to him. Sam accepted and pulled deeply on it while Dean opened a second bottle for himself. Sam just couldn't get over the similarities between himself and the boy at the Market.

After listening to Art and learning that he spent nowhere near enough time away from the farm as could account for the number of headaches that had been reported, Sam had thanked him for his time and wandered the produce stalls to buy up some fresh snacks. Dean wanted no parts of the "rabbit food" and had gone back inside to grab the beer and his own junk food. Sam met him at the cash register with his purchases from outside and his water and was introduced to Aunt Fanny, but it was the boy bagging their items and participating in friendly banter with the older woman that made Sam stare. It was like looking into a time traveling mirror. In fact, he had stared so hard, Dean needed to give him a nudge with his elbow to snap him out of it before the kid noticed.

Daniel. Dean had told him his name was Daniel. And a foster kid. The thought pulled at Sam's heart. He knew what it was like to grow up without a mom and for his dad to be gone more than he was home, essentially leaving them without a father either. Sam shook his head and drew on his beer again. Home? Hell, until he and Dean had found the Men of Letters bunker, he never had one of those either. Maybe Daniel knew more about it than he did. Though with him being on his seventh foster family at -what?- sixteen or seventeen?, maybe not.

"So did you meet anyone today who could possibly fit the description of our kiv'dah?" Dean asked.

Sam plopped onto his bed and scooted up to rest his back against the headboard. "I don't think so," he answered. "The only person you didn't see me talk to was Isabelle, but she's not a local."

"Oh, Isabelle?" Dean bounced his eyebrows, prompting Sam to roll his eyes, but a smile wasn't far behind.

"Yeah, Isabelle."

"Tell me more, Bwana." Dean affected. His grin only widened Sam's.

"Blue eyes. If you can call them blue. Oh my God, more like ice. Blonde hair with colorful streaks. Cute. Tiny."

"How tiny are we talkin' here?" Dean cut in. "Like, normal-sized human who just seems tiny next to you, or...?"

"Four eleven," Sam replied as Dean lowered himself onto his own bed and lifted his beer to his lips. "And a half."

Dean nearly choked on his swallow of beer. With a cough, he sputtered out, "And a half? What, did you put a yard stick up next to her?"

Sam laughed. "I asked her. That's a thing you're allowed to do in social settings, you know. Talk to people, ask them questions, get to know them."

"Did one of your questions happen to be whether she's a spinal fluid-sucking kiv'dah?"

"No, I must have forgotten to ask that one." Sam rolled his eyes again. "Like I said, she's not a local. She only pops into the Market once a week to buy produce for canning. There's no way she's here often enough to account for the number of people who keep ending up in the hospital."

Dean nodded slowly as he processed Sam's bit of information. "Back to square one, I guess. We can go back to Martha Jo's and see if Jenn wants to gossip about other new people, or we can actually hit up the public records this time. It won't take long to look it up." He motioned to Sam's laptop bag at that.

Sam tipped back his beer bottle, draining the last bit. He wiped the back of his free hand across his lip and made to stand. "Okay, well, we only had one beer, so we can get back to it if you want."

"Actually..." Dean settled more comfortably onto his bed and cracked another beer, one Sam hadn't noticed he had carried over from the table. He licked his lips in thought and took a sip of beer before continuing his comment. "I know that one old lady died, but aside from that? This thing isn't exactly piling up the bodies. I don't know about you, but I'm not feeling the urge to go running out to solve this one." He held up a hand to forestall the argument forming on Sam's tongue. "I'm not saying we're not going to solve it, just that I'm not feeling a rush, you know?"

"Are you serious right now?"

"Completely. Look, it's not often we hunt something that's not actively killing people, right?" Dean took another drink, giving Sam an opportunity to answer his question, but the answer was too obvious, making the question close enough to rhetorical that Sam declined to give a reply. "So as long as we're just dealing with headaches and not deaths, I'm not going to work myself up over it."

Sam was reluctant to agree with Dean's line of thinking, so he just kept his mouth shut as Dean reached for the television remote, knowing there would be no way to sway him from his decision. Apparently they were calling it a day, and it was only just after noon. Sam chanced a glance over at his brother who was already choosing a station to watch. There was something off about this. Something was keeping Dean from being able to focus on the case, so he was playing it off as the monster not being deadly. Sam wasn't used to this strange kind of behavior from Dean; usually his brother was the one who wanted to rush in, guns blazing, even when they didn't have all the information on their target. What was going on with him?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now that you've met Art, I can tell you that he and his wife, Megan, are real life friends of mine. As far as I know, though, she doesn't grow anything illegal on her farm.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean turned his head sideways, gasping for breath after having been face down in his pillow. Sweat covered his bare body. His knees were spread and bent up almost under his chest, and his back was arched deeply, almost painfully. His wrists were held tightly behind his back in the grip of one hand, another holding firmly to his hip. He pressed himself backwards against the weight bearing down on his hips, aching for more sensation. A hard cock rode the crack of his buttocks, sliding back and forth in a slick wetness provided by the small, purple-capped bottle on the bed beside them. "Please," he whispered hoarsely. He had never begged before, never needed to. But then, there were a lot of things happening in the moment that he had never experienced before. The hand left his wrists, but the moment he tried to move them, the hand was there again. He was to leave his hands behind his back. It kept him off balance, vulnerable. The hand let go, and he obeyed the silent command. The sliding cock made its way down until only the tip was touching his flesh and edging ever closer to claiming him. Dean shuddered. "Cas, please," he begged again.

Dean's eyes opened to the orange glow of a streetlamp streaming through the thin curtain into the hotel room. The blood in his erection throbbed with the hammering of his heart, and he felt the pulse through his entire body. This hadn't been one of  _ the dreams. _ Cas hadn't really been in his mind this time. In those dreams, Cas was guiding them through painfully slow steps to get near each other. No, as Dean let the memory of it wash over him, he knew that it had been nothing but his own psyche giving him exactly what he wanted. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone. Maybe not even Cas himself, despite the angel joining him in ever-increasingly intimate dreams. It was all just a little slap and tickle, he told himself. They'd never actually get so far as to... Dean could feel heat rushing to his face in the not-so dark room.

He lifted slightly to look at the soft glow of the red numbers on the alarm clock between his bed and Sam's. Two twenty-eight. Less than four hours of sleep, and it was way too early to actually be up, but he was most decidedly awake. With a huff, he plopped back onto his pillow with closed eyes, trying to ignore the need thrumming through his body. Because that's what it was: need. In Wyoming, he had had a  _ dream _ that was more intense than any leading up to them, not that anything had actually happened, but just seeing Cas's face had amped up the intensity. Then the very next night, he had managed to work himself up just by fantasizing as he drifted off. Both times, he pushed away his urges. Now, tonight, he had dreamed up something hotter than any smutty magazine he had opened, any website he had visited. If he hadn't been riding the edge of desire as he was, he might have had enough coherent thought to be impressed with himself for what his imagination had given him.

He shifted under his blanket, the dream replaying behind his lids. His hips lifted slightly, seeking what wasn't there. With a shuddering sigh, Dean opened his eyes again and threw the blanket back. He wasn't crass enough to take care of himself in the same room where his brother slept, but a closed bathroom door would give him a better illusion of privacy.

What the hotel lacked in decent curtains, it made up with the shower. Dean had discovered on the first morning that the shower head had different settings, and the water heater seemed to never run out of hot water. He set the head so it would cover as much of his body as possible and stepped in under the spray. In the moments of turning on the water, he had briefly considered a cold shower to chill the fire coursing through his veins, but the thought of denying himself even this small amount of pleasure changed his mind. He needed this.

He stood with his eyes closed, feeling steam rise around him and letting the water cascade down his face, the heat matching that which he already carried inside of him. He leaned forward and let his head drop, moving his face from the spray, but allowing a staccato rhythm to beat against his neck and shoulders. His left hand propped his weight against the shower wall, and his right finally wrapped around his shaft.

The erection that had been slowly easing down was brought back with the touch, and he had to swallow a groan. He had expected that the dream he had just woken from would be forefront in his mind, but as he worked his hand over himself, it was another dream that came to him. One of  _ the dreams. _ The most recent one that he had in Wyoming, where a strike of lightning had revealed impossibly blue eyes gazing up his body, looking at him from a position only inches away from his zipper. If only the dream had lasted longer, had progressed to what they had started, to what he craved.

His yearning put an image of Cas in the shower with him. On his knees, right where Dean wanted him. The thought brought a new rush of blood to his cock and tightened the skin further as he stroked it.

Cas's hands ran up his legs and gripped the tops of his thighs. His chin tilted up, and Dean read in his eyes the same desire that coursed through him. He reached forward to touch Cas's face, to let his fingertips grace the haze of late evening stubble along his jaw. His thumb traced over Cas's slightly chapped bottom lip. Cas opened his mouth to touch the beads of water on Dean's thumb with the tip of his tongue then gently drew the digit into his mouth, sucking at it. Dean let him do it for a few moments then hooked his thumb down to force Cas's jaw open. The whimper that accompanied the flash of lust in his eyes almost unhinged Dean. He used his other hand to guide himself to Cas's waiting mouth. He played his swollen head back and forth across the slash of pink flesh and withdrew his thumb to move his hand to Cas's unruly brown hair. Their eyes never left each others' as Deans fingers curled into a grip of the dark locks, and his hips eased forward to slide his cock slowly between Cas's lips.

Dean erupted onto the shower wall with Cas's name on his tongue. He bit his bottom lip to quiet himself as he soothed each spasm with his hand. The water was suddenly too hot. Water attacked his eyes as he looked up to grope for the handle to cool it down, all the while trying to regain control of his ragged breathing. All that buildup, and he had released in the moment he most wanted to savor. He really hoped it wouldn't happen like that when they finally got together for real. That thought gave him pause. When. He shook his head.

"Cas, what are you doing to me?" he mumbled.

 

.oOo.

 

"Alright, what gives?" Sam's question seemed to pull Dean from a half-asleep stupor.

"Huh?" Dean blinked across the little hotel table at him.

"I heard you get up and take a shower at, like, two-thirty this morning. You tossed and turned after that. Now you're not even eating breakfast."

Dean looked down at the table and appeared surprised there was a platter of takeout food from Martha Jo's in front of him.

"Seriously?" Sam asked. "What is up with you lately?"

Dean shrugged and picked up a plastic fork. Though he poked at it a bit, he showed no interest in the fried eggs in the styrofoam container. "I just didn't sleep well last night."

"Obviously," Sam scoffed. "Though that doesn't usually affect you this badly. I've seen you kicking ass after going nearly seventy-two hours without sleep. Something's up, man. Talk to me."

"It's nothing." Dean stuffed a piece of egg dripping with runny yolk into his mouth and frowned around it. Sam shook his head.

"Don't do this, Dean."

"Do what?"

"This." Sam motioned across the table, his hands going up and down to take in the entire demeanor of his older brother. "Don't sit here like this and tell me there's nothing wrong."

Dean's shoulders twitched, and he rolled his neck. "It's nothing." The frustrated groan Sam let out only served to make Dean fix him with a hard expression. "It's nothing," he repeated for a third time.

"Well, whatever this 'nothing' is, I hope it doesn't affect the case."

Dean snorted and lifted his coffee cup. "Yeah, 'cause this case is sooo demanding," he grumbled into the hot liquid.

"Is that what's bothering you?"

"Drop it, Sam. I'm serious."

Sam clenched his jaw at the stern tone of Dean's voice. He knew that sound; Dean wouldn't be budged on whatever was eating at him. At least, not yet.

 

.oOo.

 

An afternoon of researching public records proved to be fruitless. The Fischers were an anomaly in that no one else had moved to Curtis in, well, hardly ever. The hard fact was that Curtis was an extremely small town with a "born here, raised here, will die here" mentality. People didn't leave, and no one really knew about it to move in. The biggest draws were the college and the veterinary clinic on the western edge of town. Megan Fischer had come to teach, but the vet's office hadn't had an outsider arrive in a very long time. Sam sighed and leaned back in his seat to rub at his eyes with the tips of his thumb and middle finger, pinching at the bridge of his nose.

"We've got to be missing something." Dean's comment echoed Sam's thoughts. Something, yes, but what? "But what?" Dean mumbled. That made Sam drop his hand into his lap and look at his brother. Dean, of course, had no idea he was saying exactly what Sam was thinking. He was staring forward but seeing nothing, obviously digging through his own thoughts. Sam stayed quiet, letting Dean muse for another moment then spoke up.

"I don't know. But I think I know who will."


	9. Chapter 9

"Nah, I can't think of nobody," Jenn said as she topped off their sodas from her pitcher. "Was already strange enough when Professor Fischer got on at the university. You'd think a horticulturist would look for a job somewhere's more prestigious than a little college in the middle of nowhere, but soon as ol' man Hinkle retired, Megan Fischer was takin' his place."

"Thanks, Jenn," Sam lifted his full cup, indicating the thanks was for both the service and the information -or rather, the lack thereof. The waitress nodded and smiled first at Sam then turned it to Dean where it faltered. Where before, Dean had openly flirted, now he was clearly lost in thought. Jenn drifted away. "Dean?"

"Hmm?" Dean blinked and focused on Sam.

"Were you here for all of that?"

Dean cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. "Yeah. Old professors, no one new. Got it."

Sam sighed at his big brother, but Dean either didn't notice or didn't care. Dean dug some bills out of his wallet to pay for the drinks and dropped them on the table. As he stood to tuck the wallet into his back pocket, he seemed to come into himself a little better.

"Let's swing by the Market before going back to the hotel. I need some more beer."

"You go on to the hotel," Sam suggested. "I'll go to the Market."

Dean blinked. "You mean you're gonna walk?"

"Um. Yeah?"

"The beer will get warm."

"Dude, it's like, a four minute walk from the Market to the hotel. I think the beer will be fine." Dean looked less than convinced at Sam's response. "Besides, I was going to look over the produce again. See if there's anything else I want."

That did it; Sam watched the decision sweep across Dean's face. His older brother wanted no parts of shopping for fresh fruit or vegetables. Predictable.

Out on the sidewalk, Dean offered to drive Sam to the Market. Sam rolled his eyes. "I can literally see the building from here. You know, you could stand to rely more on your own legs every once in a while rather than wheels."

Mockingly aghast, Dean clutched at his chest with one hand and ran the other across the roof of his Impala, petting it. "He didn't mean it, Baby," he crooned to the gleaming, old Chevy.

Smirking, Sam rubbed the car too. "Yes I did."

Dean's fist punched the air between them, stabbing a finger at Sam, his face screwed in phony anger. "You don't touch her if you can't say nice things."

Sam chuckled and turned to walk to the Market. He was glad the exchange had managed to help Dean act -if not feel- more like himself. "See you at the hotel," he threw over his shoulder. His stride took him to the outdoor farmer's market. He hadn't wanted to admit it to Dean, but there was an ulterior motive to his wanting to go alone. As Sam made his way through the stalls, his eyes were cast down to the just-under five foot level, searching for a faded green trucker cap sitting on blonde hair. It had only been a day, but that didn't stop Sam from hoping Isabelle would come back into town early -maybe even to see him again, as he was wanting to see her. Unfortunately, though he did see plenty of faces he recognized from before, none of them were Isabelle's.

Sighing with disappointment, Sam took himself through one pair of double doors into the store. Aunt Fanny grinned from behind the register. "You just couldn't keep away from this gorgeous face, could ya?" the older woman teased.

Sam had to smile. "How could I?"

Aunt Fanny's tittering giggle followed him through the store. As he approached the glass doors of the beer cooler, Sam's eyes scanned the neatly stocked shelves for El Sol, Dean's favorite brand. He spied a price label under an empty slot with the beer's name on it.  _ Figures _ . He cast about the store and spotted the stock boy wiping counters in front of the fountain drinks. Sam approached him. "Um, Daniel?"

The boy straightened and looked at him with a friendly smile, and if he realized the two of them looked eerily alike, it didn't show in his expression. For Sam, however, the strangeness of looking into the face of a young version of himself crept across his shoulders. He shifted them slightly, trying to ease the feeling away, and he thumbed back at the shelves of beer. "Any chance you have more El Sol back in the cooler?"

Daniel furrowed his brow, an expression Sam had a hunch he, himself, made often. "Any what?"

"El Sol," Sam repeated. "It's beer. Look, it's right--" he turned and led the way to the glass door covering the shelves of six packs of bottles and one empty slot. "—here." He pointed as Daniel stood behind his shoulder to peer through the glass at the tiny label.

"El Sol," Daniel murmured, slowly drawing out the two words as though thinking hard about them. "I'm pretty sure there is some back there. Give me a minute."

Sam watched as the boy walked away. He shifted his shoulders again and scratched at his back. Daniel let himself into the rear portion of the cooler where, Sam assumed, the excess cold stock was stored. Sam used the time to locate and pick out a cherry pie for Dean. Maybe his favorite pie along with his favorite beer would help him dig out of whatever funk he happened to be in right now since he obviously wasn't going to talk about it. Somewhat muffled clinking of glass reached his ears. A six pack of El Sol had slid into place from the back of the shelf. Daniel was stocking from inside the cooler. Sam walked back to the beer and helped himself to the first six pack.

"Thanks, man," he said to the flush-cheeked boy through the narrow slot of vision he had between the packs of beer.

"My pleasure," he grinned. "Anything else I can help you find?"

"No, I think that's it."

"Alright, have a good one."

"You too." Sam carried the beer and pie to the register to a slightly grimacing Aunt Fanny.

"Coulda swore he had that all stocked up," she said, ringing up the pair of items. "It's not like him to leave any shelves in the store empty. I'm sorry, honey."

Sam replied with an indifferent hum. "It's fine, Aunt Fanny, really," he assured her. He paid for the items after Aunt Fanny stuffed them into a paper bag, pie on top. It made for an awkwardly-shaped burden, but the flimsy foil and plastic packaging of the pie would have been crushed by the beer. As he tucked the bag under one arm, Aunt Fanny winked at him.

"You come back and see me," she flirted.

Sam grinned. "How could I resist?"

"Such a nice young man," he heard her say as he left the store to the sound of the small, tinkling bell above the front door. He was just passing the farmer's market and about to cross the street when another woman's voice rang out.

"Gigantes!"

He turned to the sound, and his face split into yet another smile at the sight of a short figure wearing a green trucker's cap waving at him from behind a display of several different sized mason jars filled with honey, the larger ones with chunks of honeycomb. "Isabelle, hi." Sam redirected his feet to take himself to join her under the shade of the striped canopy. "Is this your honey?"

Isabelle smiled proudly, "Sure is. Well. I raise the bees that make it."

"How long have you been out here? I didn't see you when I went in."

"Oh, were you looking for me?" she nudged his ribs opposite of the paper bag with her elbow.

Sam knew it was his cue to playfully deny that he had, but he couldn't help but look directly into her icy, pale blue eyes and simply say, "Yes. Yes I was."

Her deep blush made his honesty worth it. She lowered her chin, hiding behind the bill of her cap. Sam used his thumb and forefinger to lift the cap up and back, forcing her to either let him take it off her head or to lift her chin again to look at him. She looked up.

"I can't help but notice it's been less than a week," Sam continued, holding her gaze. "Which means you're here for the same reason I am."

Isabelle wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. "Maybe," she said softly.

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "Maybe?"

"Okay, yeah," she admitted. "I came back 'cause I was hoping you hadn't left town yet."

"And I haven't."

"No, you haven't." Silence stretched over them as they examined each others' faces, small smiles playing across their lips.

"So now what?" Isabelle finally asked.

"So now I ask for your phone number," Sam made to reach into his pocket and had to shift the bag of beer and pie across his chest to reach it.

"Let me," Isabelle offered, dipping behind Sam. "Butt pocket?"

"Uh, no. Right hip." Sam settled the bag over his left hip to expose his right pocket. He felt Isabelle run her small hand along his back and side to trail it down into his pocket and retrieve his phone.

"Nice view while it lasted," she said with a wink. In moments, she had the phone unlocked and was entering her information. When she handed it back to Sam, he looked at the screen and saw she had added a heart-eyed emoji next to her name. "So does this mean you'll be in town longer than you thought?"

"It looks like it," Sam granted. He tucked the phone into his pocket. "And while I would thoroughly enjoy spending more of that time with you right now, I have to deliver this to my brother." He hefted the bag slightly.

Isabelle pouted, but it was quickly replaced with a smile. "If you insist. You will use my number soon, though, right Sam?"

"I will."

"You better."

Sam took another moment to drink in the beauty of her face. He started to lean in, hesitated, then thought,  _ Hell with it _ and bent down to place a soft kiss on her cheek just as she had kissed him the day before. "I promise," he whispered against her smooth skin. Isabelle's blush came flaming back, and Sam had to hold down a responding grin. He could almost hear Dean's voice in the back of his head,  _ Play it cool, Sammy. _

Sam hadn't been exaggerating when he told Dean the walk was only a few minutes, but as he crossed the street and set himself along the sidewalk, he rubbed at the back of his neck with his free hand, letting it slide up to cup the base of his skull under his long, brown hair. A headache was forming, and with each step, Sam found himself wishing he could sit down. Instead, he forced his feet forward and made his way to the hotel.

 

.oOo.

 

Dean had already taken off his shoes and was kicked back against the headboard of his bed when Sam staggered through the door, sweating and pale-faced, with circles under his eyes. "Dude, what the hell?" Dean exclaimed, bounding off the bed and rushing to his brother's side. Sam relinquished his paper bag, which Dean set on the small table, and he took the last few steps to the nearest bed to flop down onto it.

"Just a headache," Sam mumbled.

"'Just a headache' my ass," Dean retorted. "You look like shit."

"You always know just what to say." Sam's smile was weak and watered down. "Grab some Ibuprofen for me, would you? I'm gonna lay down."

Dean went for the first aid kit, but not without a few words for his brother. "Are you being dense on purpose, or is this headache really so bad you can't think? The freakin' kiv'dah got you, man."

"Yeah, probably."

Dean considered throwing the tiny bottle of pills at him. "Probably? That's it? Aren't you going to tell me what happened? Who was it?"

"Dean," Sam took the bottle and portioned himself 800mg, which he dry swallowed. "I'm going to say this in the nicest way I know how. Shut the hell up and let me sleep through this. Remember Dr. Clemment called it a 'positional headache,' which means I need to rest, or it'll get worse." As he spoke, Sam burrowed into his bed and closed his eyes against the pillow.

"At least tell me who it was," Dean insisted. He wanted nothing more than to go out and gank the son of a bitch who did this to his little brother, but Sam kept his eyes closed and didn't answer. Dean thought he was already asleep, but then Sam said one more thing. It was so quiet, Dean almost didn't hear him.

"Got you some pie."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, Sammy.


	10. Chapter 10

Hours. It had been hours since Sam had snuggled half his face into his pillow atop the blanket. His hair had fallen across the rest of his face, somehow leaving one eye uncovered. Even in sleep, that eye kept wincing in what Dean could only assume was pain. Meanwhile, Dean had taken to alternating between pacing the short open floor space in the room and sitting on the end of his own bed to watch Sam's sleeping form and then standing up to pace again. After several turns of both, he had finally pulled out Sam's laptop to learn what he could about positional headaches and was dismayed to find out Sam would be out of commission for quite some time. "Expect to spend a few weeks resting," one article had stated. More pacing.

Dean plopped on the foot of his bed again and ran a hand down his face. He looked over at his brother who lay on his side, his back to Dean; he watched the rise and fall of Sam's ribcage as the younger man breathed slowly and evenly. At least in sleep, he was only minimally aware of the pain.

For a good, long while -Dean wasn't sure how long- an idea tumbled around in his mind. He felt uncomfortable with it, though, and he kicked himself as ten kinds of coward for putting it off. Sam needed him to get his head out of his own ass about it. All he had to do was suck it up and pray.

Dean bit his lip and jumped up to continue pacing. He couldn't do it. He couldn't ask Cas for help after all the dreams they had been sharing. He couldn't bring himself to look the angel in his beautiful, sunset blue eyes after using fantasies of him to masturbate in the shower. It was just... wrong. Besides, for years he and Sam had gotten through many difficulties without divine help. This would be no different, right?

A sigh drifted across the room, and Dean was immediately at the side of his brother's bed as Sam rolled onto his back and blinked against the light in the room. "Turn the overhead off," he croaked through a dry-sounding throat. Dean exchanged overhead light for the lamp sitting on the table between the beds.

"How ya feelin'?" he asked, sliding onto the side of his own bed. Sam grunted as he tried to lift himself to a sitting position with shaking arms. Dean quickly intercepted, pressing a hand to his shoulder. "Nope. You stay horizontal, brother."

"At least let me prop up on some pillows," Sam argued, still sounding hoarse.

Dean agreed, lending an extra pillow from his own bed. Once Sam was securely positioned on the stack of three pillows, Dean went to the mini fridge to grab one of the bottles of water Sam had bought... was it only yesterday? It seemed so much longer. He opened it and handed it to Sam who gratefully accepted and carefully sipped, though from the rasping of his voice, he could have gulped without judgement.

"Alright, talk to me, Sammy," Dean commanded as he took his place back between the beds and sat on the side of his own. He clasped his hands in front of himself, leaning his elbows onto his knees and dry washing his hands. "What happened? You were out of my sight for, like, twenty minutes max, and you come back here with a headache and pass out. What the hell took you so long anyway? You were just going on a beer run. Did the kiv'dah kick your ass or something?" As questions tumbled from Dean, Sam closed his eyes, and Dean realized he was overwhelming his brother. Dean shut his mouth, determined to let Sam have the next word, though he was itching for information.

Minutes ticked by, and just as Dean was thinking Sam had fallen back to sleep, Sam lifted the water to his lips, took another sip, and finally opened his eyes again to look at him. "I think... I think it was Isabelle."

"Isabelle? The blonde cutie you met yesterday?"

Sam nodded and sipped.

"Tell me."

Sam recounted the interaction with Isabelle he had that afternoon, starting with her shouting out the Greek giant nickname she had given him.

"Does she even remember your name?" Dean joked.

Sam only raised an eyebrow at him and gave what Dean knew to be a poor version of his usual bitch face then kept talking. He came to the end of his account, telling Dean about the whispered promise, and Dean's face split into a wide grin.

"Hot damn! I couldn't be more proud of you, you smooth son of a bitch." Dean watched Sam fight a smile and lose. He tried to hide it behind taking another sip from his bottle. As the water touched his tongue, he closed his eyes, and the smile faded. He kept his eyes closed as he lowered the bottle. "Your head still hurting?" Sam nodded. Dean swore under his breath, but he forced himself to stick to the matter at hand. "Okay, so we have to look at the fact that you just promised to call -and date- a potential spinal fluid-sucking monster."

"Potential?" Sam opened his eyes at that and rolled his head to face Dean. "She went behind me; I felt her touching my back. It had to be her."

"I dunno, Sammy," Dean countered. "Why would she practically beg for a date and at the same time put you on your ass for a few weeks?"

"A few weeks?" Sam's eyes popped, and he started upright. The movement caused him to flinch and put a hand to the base of his skull. He settled back onto the pillows. "Are you serious?"

Dean nodded. "You're not the only one who knows how to research stuff. Hey," he continued, "Didn't she say she only shows up in town once a week?"

"Yeah, but then she was back the very next day. She could have lied."

"Or, you just don't realize what kind of animal magnetism you have on the ladies," Dean replied with a smirk. Sam rolled his eyes and closed them again, sinking further into the nest of pillows.

"Yeah, sure... Has it been six hours since I took some Ibuprofen?"

"Close enough, yeah," Dean said. "You want some more?"

"Please."

The little bottle had fallen to the carpet on the other side of Sam's bed. Dean retrieved it for him and shook the pills into his own palm to hand them over. This time, Sam used his water to swallow them then capped the bottle.

"You hungry?" Dean asked.

"Not really. But you should grab something for yourself." Sam bent a knee and reached for the laces of his shoe. Dean saw what he was doing and intercepted.

"I got you, little brother," he said, unlacing and removing Sam's shoes. "You rest, okay?" Sam silently allowed Dean to help him get settled again on his pillows, under the blanket this time.

"You going to get food?" Sam asked.

"I don't need to go anywhere. I hear someone bought me some pie."

Sam peered over at the paper bag that sat on the table, top rolled to show it still hadn't been opened. "Heh. Looks like the beer got warm after all."

"Thanks to you, bitch," Dean said with fondness.

Eyes closed against his pillow, the corner of Sam's mouth twitched in a small smile. "Whatever. Jerk."

 

.oOo.

 

Despite telling Sam he was going to eat the pie, Dean really had no interest in any food at the moment. He was far too concerned about his little brother to bother with eating, so while he pulled the pie from the paper bag on the table, he only set it to one side. He did take the time to refrigerate the beer, though. Condensation weeping from the glass had softened the thin cardboard carrier, so Dean slid each of the bottles out of it to lay them down in the mini fridge, keeping the last room-temperature bottle for himself. He used the silver opener on his keyring to remove the top off the neck with a dull popping sound and absently tossed it in the general direction of the little trash can by the wall next to the door. The pings he earned as the cap danced across the square of laminate floor let him know he had missed, but he didn't care. His eyes and attention -and worry- were all for Sam.

In a way, it was good that Sam had heeded what Dr. Clemment had said about positional headaches and was resting right away. However, that also meant he wasn't brain storming with Dean. And Dean needed more information than what little he had gotten when Sam had briefly woken. It made him wonder again if he should just get over himself long enough to pray to Cas and ask him to come heal Sam. If not for the dreams, it would have been a no-brainer. Of course he could ask Cas for help. It had never been an issue before. But now, now... Dean sighed and pulled deeply on the beer, ending the swallow with a grimace over the warm liquid bubbling down his throat.

What was keeping him from wanting to face Cas now? As Dean paced, he shifted his shoulders under his green and brown flannel shirt and had to admit to himself that it felt uncomfortably close to shame. But what shame would grow to be stronger? This? Or the shame he would feel if he allowed his little brother to suffer through a weeks-long headache that could be cured in the blink of an eye with one touch to his forehead by the angel's fingertips? Dammit. Taking care of Sammy had always been his job. Right now, the only way he could think to do that was to call upon angelic assistance.

Dean lifted the beer to his lips again and was surprised to realize he had already finished it while brooding. He eyed the mini fridge across the room, knowing damn well the rest of the beer wasn't cold yet but wondering if what he needed was just a bit of liquid courage before praying. His mind was pretty much made up, but he was still stalling. That knowledge irked him. Irritably, he deposited the bottle into the trash can and picked up the dropped bottle cap to throw that in too for good measure. Years of heavy drinking told him that even if he pounded all five of the beers left in the fridge, one after the other, they wouldn't put much of a dent in his sobriety. What he really needed was a bottle of bourbon. A big one. There was no way he was going to leave Sam long enough to find a liquor store. He had noticed right away that the Town & Country Market did not carry the good stuff. That meant leaving the town of Curtis to find what he wanted. Under these circumstances, that was completely unacceptable.

Resignation slowly gripped him as he stationed himself at the foot of Sam's bed to look down upon him as he slept. Dean passed a hand down his face, turning it into a fist and pressing his knuckles to his mouth. The decision wasn't getting any easier, no matter how long he waited.

_ Do it. Just pray. Just close your damn eyes and say his name. _ Dean slammed his fist down on this thigh.  _ Don't be such a chickenshit! This is for Sammy! _

Dean threw himself down to sit on the foot of his own bed. He slumped over, propped his elbows on his knees, and grabbed a double fistful of his short, light brown hair in frustration. He kept his eyes open and glued to the carpet in front of his feet, vision going slightly blurry with nothing to focus on. "Ca--" The angel's name stuck in his throat. He cleared it and tried again. "Cas, we need your help," he squeezed out. "Sam needs your help." He paused for a long time, trying to suss out what he wanted to say next. "Listen, buddy, I know it's been a while, and I know I probably should have already reached out so we can talk about... things... but... Dammit, just get your ass down here, would you? Sam's hurt, and I can't do nothin' about it. I... I need you, man."

He sat in silence for what felt like an eternity, but oddly, he couldn't be sure if it was only seconds or longer when he finally blinked, and there in front of him were the toes of a pair of scuffed, unpolished, black dress shoes. Dean's grip on his hair relaxed, and he slowly raised his head. His gaze took in the dark slacks, white button down shirt, and slightly loosened blue tie, all shrouded in a rumpled, tan trench coat and topped with a face he hadn't seen outside of his dreams in months.

"Hello, Dean," the deep, graveled voice greeted.


	11. Chapter 11

Dean's stomach lurched, and his heart was in this throat. His head was craned back almost to the point of discomfort in order for him to look up into Cas's so-blue eyes, making him vaguely aware that Cas was standing well within his personal space. For once, though, he couldn't find the words to tell him to back up. Perhaps he didn't want to. Sensory memories of the way the angel had touched him in his pitch-black dreams flooded across his skin, inviting a shiver to walk up his spine. The sensation allowed him to rip his gaze down and turn his head to face his sleeping brother in the other bed. He wasn't going to blush, dammit. He wasn't some flighty school girl in front of her crush.

"Sam's hurt," he said roughly before clearing his throat and swallowing hard.  _ Get it together, Winchester. _

Cas moved from in front of him and crossed his field of vision again, putting himself in the small space between the two hotel beds. Sam was curled onto his side with his back to them. He hadn't moved since pulling the ugly, brown on tan blanket over his shoulder and holding it under his chin. It cored Dean's heart to see him like that. A strong, healthy Sam would be sprawled on his back, blanket half thrown off and dominating the mattress with his long limbs, not drawn in on himself, damn near in a fetal position. Dean focused on that. That was why he called Cas down here, to take care of his little brother. Nothing else could matter until Sam was well.

"What happened?" Cas asked, looking down at Sam.

"We're hunting a kiv'dah," Dean answered. "It got Sam."

"A kiv'dah?" Cas looked over his shoulder at Dean, his brow lined with confusion. "What is a European creature doing here?"

Dean shrugged, sparing only a glance up at Cas's face before putting his attention back on Sam. He was afraid if he stared any longer, he would be caught up in Cas's gaze again. He had to stay on the task at hand. "You got me. And I don't really care at this point. I just want Sam to be okay."

"Of course." The angel faced Sam again, and Dean let himself look up at the back of his head to examine the unruly mass of dark brown, almost black hair. His eyes skimmed the outline of the shapeless coat that hid the curves of the body underneath, and though there was little to see with so many layers covering it, his eyes were drawn to the middle as Cas bent at the waist over Sam's sleeping form to reach down and press the tips of his first two fingers to Sam's forehead.

As Cas straightened, Sam sighed lightly in his sleep, and Dean tore his eyes from staring at Cas's ass -now wasn't the time for that- to see Sam's whole body relax from the tension he had been holding. Relief swept through Dean, watching Sam settle more comfortably. The fist that had been holding the blanket under his chin loosened enough that the fabric slipped from his fingers as his legs stretched out and took it with them, uncovering Sam's shoulders. He even turned slightly, not quite onto his back, but not hunched over his own chest anymore. It was an improvement, and Dean was grateful for it.

"He'll sleep 'til morning."

Dean nodded a few times then froze, realizing what that meant. Despite the fact that Sam was in the room, he would stay dead to the world while Dean and Cas had the conversation that Dean had all but promised when he prayed to get the angel there with them. Was it too late to back out? His eyes flicked up from Sam, and he realized Cas had turned fully to face him. Even though he was further away than he had been when he first arrived, suddenly, Cas was too close to him. Quickly, Dean jerked to his feet and took long strides to the mini fridge at the front end of the room. "You want a beer?" he offered.

"No, thank you," came the quiet answer.

Heart hammering, Dean crouched down, practically hiding behind the open door of the fridge and reached in to pull a single beer from where he had previously laid them. It still wasn't cold. He felt as though too much had happened in too short a period. Surely, the beer should be cold by now. He left the bottles alone and closed the door, wishing once more for something harder instead. Dean moved from his crouch to a chair at the little table, still in the kitchenette, and as far away from Cas as he could get without crossing the room and closing himself in the bathroom. His heel bounced against the floor, vibrating his whole body in the chair. As soon as he realized what he was doing, he stilled his leg and took a slow, deep breath. Was this conversation really about to happen? Shit.

Though his eyes were fixed to the tabletop as though it was the most important thing in the room, Dean's periphery showed that Cas stayed where he had left him, standing between the two beds and watching Dean make a fool of himself. He seemed to be waiting; waiting for Dean to say something. Waiting for him to start talking. Jesus, what was he going to say? How did he broach this subject?  _ Your visits in my dreams have been teasing the shit out of me, and there's only so much fantasizing and jerking off I can do, and I want it all to come to a head, and...  _ No. Not only no, but hell no. He couldn't say any of that.

The silence stretched on. Dean knew Cas had infinitely more patience than he. The angel was, from what he gathered, a few billion years old; no doubt he could withstand the amount of time it took for Dean to unscramble his brain. It was also probably why each dream was only minutely more intimate than the one before it. Cas had the luxury of time to draw things out slowly.  _ Then why the lightning? Why did he let me see his face? Did he really think I didn't know it was him?  _ Unless the lightning hadn't been Cas's doing. Up until now, Dean had always assumed every aspect of those dreams -aside from his own actions in them- had been under control of the angel. But what if Dean had caused the lightning? Was it his own desire to see Cas's face that lit up the room?

Instead of asking any of those questions, he used a safer -much safer and much more mundane- topic to break the silence. "I, uh," he cleared his throat again and arrhythmically tapped the pads of his fingertips on the smoothly polished, wooden tabletop. "I hope I didn't pull you away from anything important to come down here."

"Very little is as important to me as you, Dean. You and Sam."

_ Not helping.  _ Dammit, why did this have to be so hard? Dean forced himself to stop his less than stellar drumming and look up from the table to give Cas eye contact and try again. God, he could get lost in those eyes if he let himself. "Thank you, Cas," he said with all the sincerity he had in him. "I mean it."

Cas seemed to take his words as an invitation to join him at the table, but as he sidled out from between the beds and took a step toward him, Dean panicked and word vomited at him, "So I guess I shouldn't be taking up any more of your time."

The statement stopped Cas in his tracks, and the expression shining from those blue eyes slammed guilt up, down, and sideways through Dean, like a series of physical blows to his insides. Cas rebuilt himself as Dean watched, smoothing his face into a blank wall. Dean felt as though there should suddenly be a blazing, neon sign above his head, complete with a blinking arrow and the word ASSHOLE in angry, red letters.

"If there's nothing more you need from me," Cas replied in a level tone.

_ You. I don't need anything FROM you, I need YOU. _ He couldn't say it. "Nah, I think we got it, now that Sammy's gonna be alright."

A curt nod, nothing more, and Cas was gone.

 

.oOo.

 

As far as Dean could tell, Castiel had left, but all he had truly done was render himself unseen to the human eye. It wasn't the first time he had hidden himself from the hunter, and it hurt no less this time than when he had betrayed Dean's trust before. If he were to be honest with himself, indeed, the pain was moreso in this moment. It only intensified as he watched Dean slump in his chair, slide his arms across the table, and let his forehead hit the wooden surface between them with a sharp bang.

"I'm sorry, Cas," Dean's whisper floated across the room to him, but even had Castiel not been standing there, the amount of raw emotion inside of Dean was enough to make it a prayer. The words would have reached Castiel regardless of any measure of space between them. He doubted Dean knew that. "I'm so sorry."

Castiel was sorry too. He never should have allowed himself to get so... involved with Dean in his dreams. The first one had simply been a means to comfort his friend. He knew Dean was hurting, but he didn't know what Dean had needed in that moment, so all Castiel could offer was absolute darkness and his presence. What he hadn't expected was the comfort he, himself, had gained from it as well. Thus, his visits to Dean's dream mind had continued. And touch; he had learned that touch was an element of comfort for humans. Dean often clapped him on the shoulder to show camaraderie, so despite the oft-repeated demand for personal space, Castiel had thrown caution aside and held Dean's shoulder.

It had been a shock when Dean reached up to place his hand over Castiel's. A shock, but a welcome one, and it thrilled him to his toes. It was a gift he had never afforded himself to consciously desire, but the pull had been there, inside of him, for almost the entire time they had known each other. Suddenly, with Dean's hand on his, that desire burst forth to the surface. After that, Castiel tiptoed along a precarious line of how he might be allowed to touch Dean. It was a slow, careful process. One that he was afraid he might have sabotaged the night he got greedy enough to want to see Dean -only for a moment- as he trailed down the hunter's hard body. He hadn't anticipated that Dean might have been looking down at him, too, the moment Castiel had loosed the flash of lightning.

Following that night, Castiel had avoided Dean's dreams, wary that he might no longer be welcome. After all, during his waking hours, Dean hadn't prayed to him in several months. He didn't seem to want or need the angel's company or council. Dean's prayer this evening had given Castiel a false hope. He would have come regardless of whether Dean had mentioned the dreams or not, but Castiel should have known in the roundabout way Dean had brought it up that he wasn't ready to talk about them. In his own way, Castiel felt a bit betrayed too. It was as though Dean had known exactly how to get his attention and had dangled it in front of him like a scrap of meat before a hungry wolf.

Castiel tilted his head, turning the analogy over in his mind. Was that truly how Dean made him feel? As a ravenous wolf, wanting to devour him? He examined the hunter where he sat. Dean had lifted his head off the table, but only so far as to prop it in his hands, his tense fingers spread through his short hair. All at once, in that moment, Castiel was less than wolfish. He reverted to the feeling he had had during that first dream, when he had wanted nothing more than to protect Dean, shelter him, and bring him peace.

He crossed the room to stand behind Dean's chair and settled his hands lightly atop the back of it. Silently, he unfurled his wings, stretched them as far as the room would allow, and gently encompassed himself and Dean in a feathered cavern. The invisible act was lost to Dean, but Castiel could tell he sensed something by the way he slowly lifted his head from his hands, letting his fingertips trail down his cheeks, and folded one within the other at his chin. Bit by bit, the hunter relaxed.


	12. Chapter 12

Sam woke gradually, and before opening his eyes, he let himself examine how he felt. It came to him easily enough: he felt refreshed, well-rested, and his head didn't hurt. He hoped it wasn't just a trick of sleep. Would the headache come blazing back the moment he sat upright? It was a risk he was, unfortunately, going to have to take. One step at a time, though. He knew it was in his best interest to start his morning slowly. He softly blinked open his eyes; once, twice, thrice... and he saw Dean sleeping at the table in the kitchenette, the side of his face cradled on his folded forearms.

Morning light streamed through the fibers of the cheap curtain, casting a glow across Dean's upper body and making his hair look as though it was tipped in golden highlights. For some reason, it made Sam think of the frosted tips hair trend from the late '90s and how he had teased Dean over the fact he knew Dean secretly wanted to try it himself. The more Dean had adamantly denied it, the more Sam had ribbed him, calling him by boy band member names like Lance Bass. The memory made Sam smile to himself as he sat up and slid back with the pillow between his body and the headboard, still regarding his sleeping brother. Then his eyes fell on the unopened container of cherry pie next to Dean's head, and his mouth pursed ruefully. He was certain Dean had said he would eat it. Hadn't he? It was hard to remember. Either way, it looked like Dean had ignored it in favor of watching over him all night. One glance to the other side of the room showed him that Dean's bed hadn't been used, confirming his suspicion.

He sat a while longer, waiting for his headache to return. So far, so good. What he really wanted was a cup of coffee, but it wouldn't do for him to try to drive, only for the headache to return as badly as it had been yesterday. And if Dean really had stayed awake all night, he would feel guilty waking him to go on a coffee run. Sam worried his bottom lip between his teeth. Shower first, he decided. Then if he was still feeling okay -and only then- he might chance a quick jaunt out for coffee.

In the bathroom, Sam adjusted water temperature under a shower head that had pressure not unlike what he enjoyed at the Bunker. After a headache like he had endured yesterday, a good, massaging shower would be just the thing to help him relax. But as he slipped under the spray and savored the beating pressure of the water on his shoulders, he realized there was no tension to massage out. He really did feel great, and that only served to perplex him.

He took his time washing and conditioning his long hair with the entire contents of each of the tiny bottles provided by the hotel. It was barely enough. While the conditioner soaked into his hair, he washed his body, this too, done with the hotel body wash. It was nice to stay in a place that actually had these things available. He used his own razor -something the hotel did not supply- to do a little bit of manscaping. The row of blades were scraping across some of his more tender bits when his hand slowed as he suddenly remembered that he probably wouldn't be sharing this particular body part with Isabelle. Not even 'probably;' definitely. Sam tried to not make it a habit to sleep with the monsters. Oh, it had happened in the past, but not after he knew who -or what- they were. Well, okay, once. ...Twice. But still. He shook his head, banishing the thoughts, and finished what he was doing. Whether he was going be having sex or not, he didn't want to leave the shower with only half of his sack shorn of hair. That would just feel strange.

Clean, dried, and dressed, Sam exited the bathroom along with a cloud of steam that sighed through the doorway around his broad shoulders. Dean was still sound asleep at the table. Much as he hated to do it, Sam was going to have to wake him. Not for coffee, though. Judging by the way he felt, he was confident he could make the drive without the headache returning. No, he just had to get Dean up from where he was propped at the table. At the very least, his brother was going to have a stiff neck and back from having slept in this position. The longer he stayed like that, the worse it would be. The best Sam could hope for was that Dean had only just drifted and would be willing to move to his own bed for a few hours for a more restful sleeping position.

He set a hand on Dean's shoulder and shook it gently. "Dean. Hey."

Dean grunted out a word that almost sounded like "warm" and nuzzled more heavily against his arms. Sam's lips thinned; he felt bad enough about this. It figured that Dean would make it harder than it had to be. He gripped Dean's shoulder and gave it a more forceful shake. "Dean."

Dean woke with a start and scrabbled his hands around the table for a moment before looking up at Sam. Recognition spread across his face, and he relaxed. Sam understood. Dean usually slept with a weapon near at hand -typically under his pillow- and any time he was woken by surprise, that was the first thing he reached for. The moment was over quickly, and Dean was suddenly on his feet, his hands fluttering over Sam's shoulders and down his arms like nervous butterflies. "Hey. Sammy. Hey. You okay? How are you feeling?" His brother didn't actually touch him, but he made such a to-do over him that Sam gave into an urge to step back and put his own hands up, palms facing Dean. It was enough to halt Dean's worried motions and still the flight of his hands.

"I'm fine, Dean," Sam assured him, slowly lowering his hands to his sides. "I don't know how. I mean, I should be laid up for a while. Unless it was just a random migraine and the kiv'dah didn't actually get me."

"No, it was definitely the kiv'dah," Dean argued. He put himself back in his chair heavily, stretched his arms above his head, arched his back, and rolled his head from one side to the other, finally allowing some concession to the stiffness that had to have been plaguing his neck and back. He slumped back in his seat, dropping his arms into his lap.

"But the headache is gone," Sam replied. "Positional headaches last a lot longer than one night."

Dean rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, looking sheepish for some reason. "Well... I kinda... I got Cas to come heal you while you were sleeping."

"Cas is here?" Sam dumbly looked around the room, a reflex more than anything, because he knew the angel wasn't there anymore.

"Nah, he took off. Guess he had other stuff to do, right?" There was something about Dean's tone of voice that made Sam examine his face curiously. Dean wouldn't give him eye contact, making it difficult to read him.

"Right..." The corner of Sam's mouth drew in. He was concerned about the way Dean had been acting over the past few days, and now adding in this behavior, Sam was starting to think it had something to do with Cas. Had he and Dean had a disagreement Sam didn't know about? It wouldn't be the first time the two of them had gotten angry with each other. Sam knew he couldn't ask; he wouldn't get a straight answer from Dean. He rarely did, and double that when the angel was involved. Instead, Sam pushed it aside and focused on the case. "Since we know it was the kiv'dah, then, and I happen to have her number in my phone, it shouldn't be hard to get to her. She doesn't live in town, though, so I'm going to have to get her to invite me back to her place so I can search it for her spontoon."

Dean, however, was shaking his head from the moment Sam mentioned the phone number and kept shaking it while Sam rattled on. "I really don't think it was her," Dean insisted.

"I'm telling you, Dean, it was. You weren't there; you didn't see her. She didn't even try to hide walking around behind me, and she kept touching me so I would be too distracted to feel the proboscis."

"That's the thing, though. Don't you think she would have tried to hide it if it was really her? You said the two of you were right out in the middle of the farmer's market. People everywhere. Someone would have seen something sticking out of her arm and into your back, don't you think?"

A worm of doubt was creeping through Sam, and it frustrated him. He had to admit that Dean made sense, but if he was right, then who else could it have been? Sam asked the question aloud.

"You had to have interacted with someone else or been near someone else, even if you didn't talk to them. Think, Sammy. Hell, it wasn't Aunt Fanny, was it? You bought the pie and the beer from her."

"No, not Aunt Fanny; she was on the other side of the counter the whole time..." Sam trailed off, and realization struck him. Dean must have seen it on his face.

"What?" his brother asked, expectantly.

"Daniel."

"Daniel? The stock boy, Daniel? Are you sure?"

"No one else was in the store, and I had to show him that the beer I wanted was out of stock..."

 

_ "—here." He pointed as Daniel stood behind his shoulder to peer through the glass at the tiny label. _

_ "El Sol," Daniel murmured, slowly drawing out the two words as though thinking hard about them. "I'm pretty sure there is some back there. Give me a minute." _

_ Sam watched as the boy walked away. He shifted his shoulders again and scratched at his back. Daniel let himself into the rear portion of the cooler... _

 

"Your back itched when he walked away, and that didn't clue you in?" Dean was incredulous.

"What? Sometimes you just get an itch, and you scratch without thinking about it," Sam defended. "I think it's pretty impressive that I remembered it at all."

"And you're sure you didn't let anyone else near your back? Anyone at all?"

"Honestly? No. I'm kind of questioning everything at this point."

Dean nodded his understanding, which Sam appreciated. "Alright. But right now, it looks like we have something to work off of. If Daniel winds up being a dead end, we'll wrack that brain of yours, missing fluids not withstanding, to see if you remember anything else."

Sam didn't like how Dean said it, but he agreed.

"Alright," Dean said again. "We need to get into this Daniel kid's house. Who did Aunt Fanny say was his foster family? Started with a B. Ban-- Bar--"

"Barton," Sam thought that was right.

"Let's check the public records and get the address. Then one of us needs to get in there while the Mr. and Mrs. aren't home. We gotta get his spontoon."

"Yeah, but first? Can we get some coffee?"


	13. Chapter 13

Given Jenn's propensity for popping over at their table, as a decent waitress should, Sam and Dean couldn't talk about the case openly at Martha Jo's. That didn't stop Sam from working at his laptop, staring intently at the screen as he looked into the lives of George Barton and his wife, Susan.

"George and Susan. I swear, could they have names that scream 'apple pie' any louder than that?" Dean had commented when Sam found them. Now, he was shoveling bacon into his mouth, crunching happily while Sam learned more about the pair. After a few minutes glued to his screen, Sam glanced around the room -probably to make sure Jenn wouldn't interrupt them- before spinning the laptop to face Dean. There before him was a full screen picture of a church that looked much like the one they had passed when criss-crossing the town to put eyes on everything just a couple of days prior. Dean wiped bacon grease from his hand onto his pants and then reached forward to the mouse pad.

"'Welcome to St. James Baptist Church,'" Dean read aloud as the words scrolled along. "'Our flock is humbly lead by Father George Barton.'" He looked up at Sam. "He's a preacher."

"Yep," Sam reclaimed then closed the laptop and shoved it into his waiting bag. "And as the preacher's wife, Susan, naturally, is a home maker who does plenty of volunteering for the church, but she doesn't have a job outside of the house."

"Which means on most days, she's at home."

"Exactly."

"Crap."

Sam nodded his agreement. "So how're we gonna do this?"

"Do what, sugar?" Jenn was suddenly at the table with a steaming pot in her hand, pouring more coffee into their almost empty mugs. Dean hadn't noticed her approach.

"Uh, we um," he cleared his throat. "We're trying to decide who's getting the bill this time," Dean said, thinking quickly.

"Well, not that it's any'a my business," she replied, leaning in toward Dean as though to speak conspiratorially, but without bothering to lower her voice, "but I can't help but notice that you pay more often than he does." She finished her statement with a nod of the top of her head in Sam's direction and a playful grin.

Dean favored her with a laugh. "I guess that's settled then, huh?" He also grinned across the table at Sam who shook his head but allowed a smile to cross his lips.

"I guess so," Sam consented.

Jenn chuckled and, after checking to make sure they didn't need anything else, left the table. Both mens' smiles vanished. "She's sweet, but she's nosy as hell," Dean muttered.

"Don't get all disgruntled about it," Sam countered quietly. "We've used that nosiness to our advantage already and might need it again."

"Yeah." Dean started to lift his newly freshened coffee cup to his mouth, but his hand stopped as a thought struck him, and he set the cup back down with one word. "Church."

"What?" Sam's puzzled face showed he very clearly missed the lightbulb moment Dean had suddenly experienced.

"The Bartons. George is the pastor; he'll be at church on Sunday. His wife, playing to the stereotype, is probably in the choir. Chances are better than average that the good, Christian couple will have their foster son, Daniel, there too." Dean paused and let it all settle on Sam then continued his line of thought. "Their house will be empty on Sunday. We'll have at least a couple of hours, uninterrupted, to check the place out."

"Apparently, while you're doing just fine after passing out at the table, I'm operating on too much sleep," Sam replied with a good-natured tone but still shaking his head. "I can't believe that didn't occur to me."

"Admit it," Dean said, smugly. "I'm just better at this than you are."

"Whatever."

Dean crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back in his seat. "You know, as it so happens, tomorrow is Sunday."

The way he said it made Sam lower his brow, lines of puzzlement creasing his forehead. "Yeah...?"

"Which means today is Saturday."

"...Something that usually happens the day before Sunday..."

Dean huffed at him. "Are you sure the kiv'dah didn't get some IQ points along with your brain juice?"

"What are you talking about, Dean?"

"It's Saturday. What do people usually do on Saturdays?" Dean waited, but Sam only lifted his shoulders in a long shrug, waiting for Dean to answer his own question. "Oh, for-- Call Isabelle and go get laid, you big, dumb moose."

Sam let a small exhale puff from his nose, and a smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, but it faded with his next question. "And what if I was right, and she is the kiv'dah?"

"Then the look of astonishment on her face when she sees you walking around in all your Gigantic glory will be enough for you to call her out on it."

"Gigantes." Sam's eyes dropped to the table as he murmured the quiet correction right before burying his face in his cup of coffee.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean smirked, having understood the mumble, but internally, he felt a blanket of worry cover him. He seriously hoped he was right about the kiv'dah being Daniel, or -at the very least- about it not being Isabelle. Sam had really taken a shine to this girl, and it would be a damn shame if she turned out to be a monster. In the end, though, what Dean really hoped was that Sam was just going out to have a good time and wasn't in the process of catching any real feelings. That was something they couldn't afford to do in this line of work. Either of them. The thought made him squirm in his seat.

 

.oOo.

 

That evening, Sam busied himself with getting ready for his date with Isabelle. Though she had sounded pleased with his phone call and his offer of going out for the evening, she declined giving him her address so he could pick her up at home. Something about not letting strange men know where she lives.

"Am I strange?" Sam had asked.

"Verdict is still out. I'll let you know when you pass the test."

Instead, since she knew the area, it was Isabelle who picked out where they were going, and Sam had agreed to meet her at a Thai restaurant in Gothenburg for dinner. She insisted they get to know each other a little better over the food before she picked their next destination, and she teased him about what she may choose.

"Hmm... karaoke, ballroom dancing, spin class. The options are limitless, really."

Given that it meant spending time with her, Sam looked forward to whatever she had in mind.

He had brushed his hair until it gleamed, the long locks ending in slight waves around his face and down to his shoulders. He knew that in the right light, one would see hints of copper shining among the brown. If there was one thing Sam was vain about, it was his hair. He turned his face to one side then the other, examining himself in the small mirror over the bathroom sink, checking yet again to make sure he hadn't missed any spots while shaving. Satisfied that he looked as good as he was going to get, he stepped out of the bathroom, and Dean, who had been idly flipping channels on a muted television, looked up from his comfortable lounge across his bed.

Sam held his hands out from his sides, inviting criticism from his brother. He wore a screaming red t-shirt that stretched tightly across his broad chest. It sat under an unbuttoned brown shirt with the sleeves neatly rolled to just under his elbows. Tiny lines of a camel tan thread ran through the fabric, not quite stripes, but just enough to add interest. His blue jeans were dark and looked close to new, and they hid all but the tops and toes of smart, brown boots.

Dean appraised him tip to toe before sarcastically quoting, "Who ordered the Queer Eye makeover?"

Sam dropped his arms with a huff and rolled his eyes. "Well I guess that means I look good enough for a date."

"Where the hell have you been hiding those clothes?"

"I didn't want you to take them for yourself," Sam evaded, not wanting Dean to know where he kept things he didn't want his brother to have.

"Pffftttt! Like I'd wear any of that."

Sam chuckled to himself, knowing Dean wouldn't have hesitated over the fresh clothes had he seen them.

"By the way," Dean said, pointing at Sam's exposed belt buckle. "You didn't finish tucking your shirt in."

"It's called a 'French tuck,' peasant."

"It's called a 'French tuck,'" Dean mimicked in a goofy voice. Sam rolled his eyes again, but the bickering was only an act; the mood was light for both brothers.

Sam crossed the room and stuffed his pockets with his wallet and the Impala's keys. "Alright, I'm out. Don't wait up." He strode for the door.

"Hey Sammy?"

"Yeah?" Sam paused in the open doorway.

"You treat her with care."

"Of course I will. Isabelle's a sweet girl."

"Not your date; I'm talkin' about my Baby."

Sam shook his head and left.


	14. Chapter 14

As the sexy rumble of Dean's car faded from earshot, Dean returned his attention to the television across the room from the foot of his bed. Even though he had flipped through all the available channels more than once, nothing had grabbed his interest. He turned it off with a resigned sigh, tossed the plastic remote on the table between the two hotel beds, and stretched back comfortably. Well, as comfortably as he could get without Magic Fingers built into this mattress. Maybe he should tell the clerk in the lobby to look into it. He scrubbed his hands over his face then interlaced his fingers behind his head. A night to himself, no car, only five beers, no Magic Fingers, and nothing on the 'tube. Great. He couldn't get too upset about it; it had been his idea for Sam to go out on a date. He had high hopes for the kid. Hopefully, at least one of them might get laid tonight.

_ Though if I pray real hard then go to sleep, maybe I'll get laid too. _

Now that was an interesting thought, one that he hadn't actually considered before. Since the very first dream, Dean had simply waited -oftentimes impatiently so- for the next one to happen. It never dawned on him that it could even be an option to just ask Cas to come to his dreams. Though if that were the case, he might as well take it a step further and ask the angel to come to his waking bed. The very idea of it elicited a twitch in his jeans and sped his pulse. It was easy to fantasize about it -getting easier all the time, really- but damn if he didn't get nervous as hell about the mere thought of bringing it up to Cas. It was crazy, really. He knew he was a ladies man, but any attempts at flirting with other guys made him feel about as awkward as a T-rex trying to demonstrate jazz hands.

Truth be told, Cas had actually made this whole thing so much easier for Dean by starting it all in the dark. He had no idea if Cas had done it on purpose to help him slowly get used to the idea of them being together in that way, but it had worked... to a degree. Intimacy in dreams was one thing, but did Dean want Cas? Right here, right now? In this very bed?  _ Yes. Godammit, yes. _ He reached down with the intention to simply adjust the semi that was growing in his jeans, but his hand lingered, massaged, and he closed his eyes as he continued to get lost in his thoughts. Months of teasing, built upon what seemed like a thousand tiny touches, had stoked his libido to the point of near craze at times. The way the angel's fingertips danced over his skin had him aching for them to go lower, just a little lower.  _ Mmm, yes.  _ The hand on the front of his jeans became more focused, rubbing the length of himself rather than massaging. He needed to feel Cas's hand where his was, needed it to wrap around him.  _ Fuck, Cas, I need it.  _ To stroke his cock like--

A knock at the door jolted him from his thoughts. No one in this town knew them well enough to make a social call, and with the car gone, it should be assumed they weren't there to accept an official call either. Years of self preservation took over. His hand left his crotch to bury itself under the pillow that cradled his head and wrapped around the ivory-inlaid hilt of his Colt. He slipped out of the bed, to his feet, and padded silently in his socks across the room, thumbing off the safety as he went. Dean first positioned himself along the edge of the frame instead of right in front of the door. He paused, and after a moment, hoping he had waited long enough for any bullets that may have come ripping through the wood to have already done so, he eased his eye to the peephole to get a look at his visitor.

The blurry fisheye circle of glass revealed Cas standing on the other side of the door, hands buried in the pockets of his trench coat. The sight of him made Dean very aware that even in the rush of adrenaline, he was still partially hard. What was Cas doing here? And why was he knocking, of all things? Oh shit, had he popped into the room and seen what Dean was doing? The embarrassment was almost enough for Dean to not answer the door at all. But no, there had to be a reason why Cas was here. He couldn't just leave him out there.

Dean clicked the safety back on and lifted the tails of his shirts to tuck the barrel of the gun into the waistband of his jeans. Then he ran his fingers through his short, spiked hair. Wait. Was he actually trying to fix his hair before Cas saw him? He scuffled what he had neatened. Now he probably looked like he had sex hair. His hand hesitated over fixing it again.

_ Screw it. _

He opened the door, hiding his groin behind it, and was face-to-face with the literal angel of his dreams. The sun was almost down, and long, slanting rays gave Cas a golden haloed effect. The imagery was not lost on Dean.

"Hey, buddy," Dean greeted.

"Hello, Dean." Damn, what was it about the way he said those two words that made Dean want to do things?

"What, um," he cleared his throat roughly. "Did you, uh, did you need something?"

Cas's blue eyes flicked to the sliver of space of the hotel room that Dean's body revealed, covered mostly by the door as it was. Dean understood the tell.

"Oh! Yeah, um, come on in." Dean stepped back and opened the door widely, still hiding certain body parts behind it; Cas accepted the invitation and stepped through. Dean closed the door, pressing his back to the knob he still held with both hands. His jeans were still slightly tented, but without stimulation, it was easing down. He would pray that Cas not notice, but praying about the celestial being who was actually in the room would undoubtedly alert him to the very thing Dean wanted hidden. Dean looked to where Cas was standing on the carpet, toes just at the transition strip between it and the linoleum that covered the floor of the kitchenette. It was as though he was using it as a visible boundary line to respect Dean's constant demands for personal space. Yes, if he focused on the little details, maybe he could get through this without another boner.

Truly, Dean didn't even know what to say. It didn't seem very apropos to tell Cas, 'Hey, I was just thinking about you' given the context in which he was. It had been way too racy to use as a conversation starter. Remembering it stirred him, and Dean quickly moved forward to stand behind a chair at the table, tightly gripping the back, which hid his crotch from Cas. Small details, he reminded himself. Right then, he was struggling to find any.

Silence settled over them, and though it made Dean feel itchy, he wasn't sure how to break it. There were thoughts he had been mulling through before his desires started taking over. Now that Cas was standing here in front of him, he was uncertain how to arrange those thoughts well enough for them to spill out of his mouth and into the angel's ear. Just as he was wondering how long they would stand there without talking, Cas suddenly did.

"You were praying."

"I- what? No, I wasn't praying, I was--" Dean cut off, and his green eyes went wide.

"My name was loud in your thoughts."

Oh. His mind raced, but before Dean could put together a response, the angel continued speaking.

"You said you needed something." Cas stepped over the transition strip. Suddenly, the kitchenette seemed smaller than it had a moment ago. "And you know, Dean," he took another step, leading him closer. "I will always come to you." Step. "To make sure." Step. "You get what you need."

Cas was next to the chair, invading the hell out of Dean's personal space, but somehow Dean didn't notice that part. All he could do was stare into the oceans that were Cas's eyes. He felt as though he could drown in them. His fingers tightened on the back of the chair as if to anchor himself to avoid getting swept away.

"Tell me, Dean," Cas continued. "What do you need?"

Dean opened his mouth to answer, but it occurred to him that he needed air to speak. At some point, he had stopped breathing. He forced a ragged breath out and took in a gulp of much-needed oxygen before a hushed whisper passed his lips, "You. I need you."

Cas eased even closer. "I'm here. I am standing before you." He tilted his head. "I ask again: What... do you need?" The last three words were a whisper to match Dean's.

Dean shivered at the sound and had to swallow twice before he could say it. "Touch me."

Without another word, Cas raised a hand and reached for Dean's face. As skin met skin, Dean's eyes fluttered closed, putting him in the darkness of his dreams, the only time Cas had ever touched him like this. He reveled in the feel of fingertips tracing back along his jawline and down until Cas's hand lightly cupped the corded tendons of the side of his neck, his thumb still gracing Dean's jaw. He felt Cas's other hand on his shoulder, gently turning him away from the chair. Dean obliged; his fingers relaxed and let go of the chair back, and he opened his eyes again as Cas lined their bodies to fully face one another, but a thin gasp of open space still remained between them.

Increased pressure from the fingertips on his neck guided Dean's face down to meet Cas's, and Cas dropped his own chin to make their foreheads touch. This close, Dean couldn't focus, and his vision swirled in streamers of the blue that filled his eyes.

"I have exhibited a great deal of self-restraint." Cas's warm breath caressed Dean's lips as he spoke. "There is something... some may consider it a small thing, but I have denied myself over and over again." A longer pause, as though he was considering how to proceed. "Because when it did happen, I didn't want it to happen in a dream... I wanted it... to be real." With that, he lifted his chin and oh, so softly pressed his lips to Dean's.

The world spun, and heat coursed through Dean's body. His hands found Cas's hips, but only so he could slide them under the coat and sport jacket and around his back to pull the angel's body against his and close that last bit of space between them. In all his fantasies, Dean had never actually imagined what kissing Cas would be like, but if he had, he was uncertain it would have been like this. This was slow, gentle, yet still so full of passion.

Dean wasn't sure when he had closed his eyes, but he opened them when Cas pulled back from the kiss. Suddenly, he knew exactly what to say. "I'm glad you waited."

"There are other things... things I have desired but have not taken in your dreams."

"Show me."


	15. Chapter 15

The inside of My Thai was almost uncomfortably swanky for Sam, and it made him glad -for the second time- he had made the effort to dress nicely. The first was when Isabelle greeted him in the parking lot. It was the first time he had seen her without her hat. Her face was tastefully made up, hair clipped back to only slightly reveal the hidden green and blue streaks under the blonde. A tiny, clear gem winked from a piercing in her eyebrow. And she was wearing a short, dark green dress that exposed smooth, tanned thighs and offered up her cleavage for the admiring. Sam did seem to have a preferred body type, and ignoring her height, Isabelle fit it beautifully. It was after they were inside that Sam realized the dress was actually lime green with a sheer, black lace overlay that darkened the under layer. After that, though, he had immediately taken in the gleaming hardwood floor, dark wood table and chairs, and paneled walls when he followed Isabelle in after holding the door for her. The low lighting dazzled through round, woven fixtures on the ceiling. It had taken a few minutes for him to remember what they were called: basketry sieves.

Sam's discomfort had long since faded as the mostly empty dishes were carried from the table by their very attentive and kind waitress. He and Isabelle had talked and laughed their way through shared platters of pad Thai chicken, pad prik King, Tom kha gai, and an eye-wateringly spicy pad Kee Mao. Sam's reaction to that one had had Isabelle in stitches.

"I still can't believe you've never had Thai before," she gushed after the last plate was carried away, traded for the check.

Sam shrugged, reached for the slip of paper, and eyed the price. The food and the time he had spent with Isabelle were well worth it. "It's just never come up as an option, I guess." He dug out his wallet while Isabelle kept talking.

"I told you that I'd decide over dinner what to do next. I want to be honest with you; I left it open like that, playing to the possibility that this date could have been a bust, and I might just want to go home."

"I can't get mad at that," Sam allowed with a nod. He placed the correct amount of cash on the table plus an extra 25% for a very generous tip. The service and food had been excellent; also, it helped that Dean had sharked at a few different bars and pool halls in Wyoming while they were sorting out their last case. He had won a substantial amount of money, which he shared, so Sam could afford to be liberal with his spending tonight.

Sam stood and tucked his wallet away. "But then I suppose the question is.." he offered an open hand to Isabelle. "...is this date a bust?"

She looked at his hand thoughtfully then, without raising her chin, rolled her striking blue eyes to his. Sam felt a stir of arousal at her expression, the sly upturn of her lips and lowered brow. She took his hand and allowed him to guide her to her feet. "In answer to that, I can tell you that I've decided where we're going next."

"Oh?" Sam turned his body and smoothly tucked Isabelle's hand in the crook of his elbow to lead her out of the restaurant. He felt her squeeze his arm a little and resisted an urge to flex. God, she would laugh herself silly over it. He almost did it anyway, just to hear the sound of it, but he also knew by now that she'd tease him ruthlessly. He settled for just enjoying the press of her body against his as they headed toward the exit. Sam also had to make an effort to shorten his stride for her; she was just so tiny, but he was finding he rather liked it. Very much.

"Not only that, but I was hoping we could ride over there together," she continued, bumping her head lightly against the side of his shoulder.

"If that's what you want. Who's driving?" Sam asked. The hostess offered a farewell as they passed her podium. Sam smile, gave her a polite nod, and lifted his unoccupied hand in response, but the bulk of his attention was for Isabelle.

"I saw the car you got out of," Isabelle grinned up at him as he pushed the door open for them to leave, arm in arm. Warm air swirled around them to replace the cooler air conditioning from inside. "And I'd love for you to drive."

Sam smirked as he turned them in the direction of the Impala. The old Chevy did seem to have that effect on people. He unlocked and opened the passenger door for Isabelle before going around to the driver's side to let himself in. By the time he slid the key into the ignition, Isabelle was belted in with her low-heeled black shoes off, and her feet tucked up onto the seat with her body turned and her knees pointed at Sam. The engine roared to life.

"Oh my God," purred Isabelle, her eyes drifting shut for a moment. "That's the stuff wet dreams are made of."

"Do I need to get out and leave the two of you alone for a little while?" Sam teased.

Isabelle let out an indignant squeak and reached across the seat to playfully slap at his shoulder. Once her hand was on him, though, she didn't pull back right away. She let it drift down his bicep, lessening the pressure as she went until just her fingertips caught at the lip of the folded sleeve at his elbow. There, she tugged at the fabric ever so slightly before dropping her hand, at the same time, rolling part of her lower lip between her teeth for just a split second. The motions allowed the already subtly felt layer of sexual tension to thicken around them. Sam let it sit, but he smiled knowingly at Isabelle to let her know he was well aware of it.

He eased the car out of its spot and pointed it to the exit of the parking lot. "Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise. You drive; I navigate. Turn right out of here."

"This surprise isn't going to end with me in a motel bathtub full of ice, is it?"

"Aww! So much for the grand finale! Now what are we going to do for the rest of the night?" Isabelle replied with a laugh. "I guess you could turn left at the third traffic light to find out."

For safety's sake, Sam was forced to keep most of his attention on the road, but he couldn't help but glance at Isabelle now and then. For her part, she was propped sideways in the seat, keeping a steady gaze on Sam and letting her eyes drink in every detail of him -at least, that was how she was making it seem. He struggled with himself over keeping his hands on ten and two or reaching over to place one on her knee. The exposed skin decided for him; he kept his hands to himself for now. He had the feeling there would be plenty of time for that later. A few more turns lead them further into the city of Gothenburg, and eventually, they were parked outside a large building boasting a round, glowing, orange and blue sign.

"Dave and Buster's?" Sam looked inquiringly at Isabelle as he put the car into park and cut the engine.

"Oh. My. God. Don't tell me you've never been to one of these either."

Sam shrugged.

"Sam! You'll love it! It's like Plucky Pennywhistle's, but for adults!"

Sam cringed visibly, and he felt his face contort in apprehension. "There... There aren't any clowns... are there?"

Isabelle's laughter filled the car, but it died off when she saw just how distressed Sam really was. "Oh, are you serious? You're really phobic of clowns?"

He nodded and stealed himself for the inevitable teasing to follow, but it didn't come.

"No clowns, Sam. Cross my heart," which she did with one hand. Her reply pulled a grateful smile from him.

Isabelle opened her own door to get out of the car, taking away Sam's intention to get it for her. She did, however, take the crook of his arm without any prompting. Though what Sam really wanted to do was slide his arm around her slim shoulders and pull her against his side instead. As they walked inside, Isabelle started talking.

"Okay, here's how we do this. First stop: we get a Power Card that'll have our credits on it. That's how we play the games rather than using tokens. Second stop: we grab a couple of beers. Then we go play." She grinned up at him. "Sound good?"

"Lead the way," Sam replied with his own grin. Isabelle took him at his word. She relaxed the hold she had on his arm and slid her hand down to take his. As she interlaced their fingers together, she glanced down at them then flicked her eyes up to Sam's before taking a step to put herself a stride ahead, literally leading him toward a counter. Sam let her do all the talking, but he shelled out the money for the Power Cards.

At the bar, though, when Isabelle ordered a pair of beers for them, she was carded.

Her eyes rolled as she rifled through her purse for her wallet. "Every time," she mumbled. "You'd think I'd be used to it by now." When she produced her ID and handed it across the counter, Sam caught her full name.

"Barton. You wouldn't happen to be in relation to Father George Barton, would you?"

"Don't tell me you're in town 'cause of my dad," Isabelle groaned as she accepted her ID back from the bartender and slid it into her wallet.

"Uh, no. No, I'm not. I just happened to see his name on the marquee outside the church the other day," Sam replied, remembering the photo he had seen on the website. "So you're a preacher's daughter, huh? I never would have guessed."

"Neither would my parents. They're not exactly proud of the strong, independent, godless heathen I turned out to be."

"Are you serious?"

"Yep." The ordered beers were slid across the counter. "Thanks." Isabelle positioned one glass in front of each of them while Sam paid and tipped. "That's why they keep adopting troubled teens and attempting to save them by the grace of God or something. They feel like they failed with me, so they're trying to make up for it. They signed up and went through the steps to be foster parents, and they take a special interest in high school-aged kids. Right around the time I started 'rebelling' -as far as they're concerned- and stepped away from the church." She sighed. The tips of her fingers and thumb were splayed around the rim of her beer, slowly spinning the glass in a circle and watching as the foam head gradually got smaller. "It's kinda crazy, you know? Like right now, they have this one kid. He's about seventeen, I guess, and... actually, he kinda looks like you, now that I think about it. Anyway, his records are sealed, so my parents weren't told why he keeps getting thrown out of his foster homes, just that this one is far from his first. But they wouldn't care if it was because he killed somebody; they think they can just take these kids to church, get them saved, and then they, my parents, will be some kind of saviors." When she stopped talking, Sam also stayed quiet for long enough that Isabelle took notice. "Oh man, I didn't mess up just now, did I? Are you a Bible-thumper too?"

Sam smiled.  _ God is real, though he prefers to go by the name 'Chuck.' He's kind of a deadbeat dad who doesn't really care if you believe or not as long as you're not an evil person. Lucifer, on the other hand, is a douchebag who takes great delight in the evils of man. Also, I'm his perfect vessel. _ He figured it was best to not share any of it so as to not scare her away. "I believe and keep faith in my own way, but no, I'm not a 'Bible-thumper.' What a person believes or doesn't is up to them. I'm not in the business of pushing mine on others."

Isabelle raised her glass. "I'll drink to that." Sam raised his as well, they clinked tops and drank. "Look, I'm sorry I started rambling like that."

"It's okay; you don't have to apologize."

"But that's not what we're here for. So hey, let's drop that subject-" she reached for his hand, eyes sparkling playfully. She seemed to be taking her own advice and completely putting the subject behind her. '-and let's go play some games." Isabelle tugged on his hand, and Sam let himself get pulled from the bar and into the waiting arcade room.


	16. Chapter 16

_"Show me."_

At Dean's words, Castiel's hands found the collar of his unbuttoned shirt and slowly, so slowly, spread the garment over his shoulders. He let his eyes follow his movements to show Dean exactly what this meant to him. This man was the very idea of sex made whole and solid, living and breathing, and -for the first time- he was directly under Castiel's fingertips. The fact that he may now unwrap such a gift was something to be savored. His hands followed the flannel fabric of the shirt down Dean's arms, where it dropped off of his wrists to the floor. Castiel's hands then drifted to the hem of Dean's black t-shirt. Fingers skimmed the edge of it before lifting just one hand to ball it in the fabric at Dean's chest. He let his gaze lock on the delicious, candy green eyes that were watching everything he did. Without a word, he walked backwards, using his grip on the shirt to pull Dean with him, and didn't stop until they were in line with the foot of Dean's bed. The bed where, just a few minutes prior, Dean had been laying, touching himself, and thinking the most delightfully sinful things with such desire, they had reached Castiel's ears as a prayer.

_Fuck, Cas, I need it._

Castiel felt a similar need. He reached again to the hem of Dean's shirt and gathered it. As he pulled the fabric upwards, Dean lifted his arms to allow him to remove the shirt entirely. Castiel discarded it without taking his eyes off of the visual feast before him. This was it; this was as far as Dean had ever been disrobed before him. Castiel had seen it before, but never in this context, never with the ability to openly admire the broad pectoral muscles and neatly defined abdominals covered with smooth, flawless skin. He had touched every inch of it in the darkness of Dean's dreams. Now...

He started to close the distance between them, but his hand hesitated over where he wanted to start. He wanted to encompass Dean completely, to touch him everywhere at once. Dean came to the rescue in the pause. He lifted a hand to Castiel's wrist, encircled it with long fingers, and guided the flat of Castiel's palm to the anti-possession tattoo on his chest. Dean's grip opened, and he slid his own hand up to press Castiel's to his skin.

"Please. Touch me."

Castiel looked up to his face again as he realized Dean might have misunderstood the hesitation he had shown. He also realized just how much Dean must be putting himself out there by not only asking, but by actively putting Castiel's hands on his own body. Castiel stepped closer and leaned in to press his lips to Dean's sternum. Both of his hands now roamed the bare skin, bumping over Dean's ribs, down to his hips, all the while with Castiel's lips and tongue working down the center of Dean's torso. As he eased lower, Castiel sat on the foot of the bed and used his grip on Dean's hips to pull him closer. He turned his head slightly to let the corner of his mouth and his cheek skim over the soft hair that trailed from Dean's naval to disappear in the sagging waistband of his jeans. He could feel the heat beneath the fabric. It was tantalizingly close. Two fingertips on each hand dipped into the edge of the denim, and he let them travel back and forth from hips to button and back again as he raised his eyes back up to Dean's face.

Dean seemed to have lost focus; he had to blink a few times before his eyes met Castiel's. Castiel kept their gazes locked as he found the metal button at the center of the jeans by touch. The button gave way from its hole, but before Castiel could find the zipper tab, Dean's hand was suddenly entangled in the hair at the back of his head. The grip pulled his neck backwards, and Dean used the leverage to take a step away and lower his face to Castiel's.

"I've waited too long for this for you to be in that damn trench coat the whole time." His lips brushed Castiel's as he spoke. "Take it off."

The sudden shift in paradigm increased Castiel's heartrate. Dean had been awkward and uncertain, even shy, when Castiel had arrived. Given the nature of Dean's thoughts just before Castiel had knocked on the door, the angel knew what Dean wanted, and so had taken it upon himself to set things in motion. Now it seemed Dean no longer needed that guidance; he had it all under control from here. As Castiel shrugged the trench coat and sport jacket from his shoulders as one, Dean released the tight hold on his hair. The hunter stood back and watched him. Castiel made a point to hold his gaze the entire time.

Sitting as he was, the coat was trapped under him, so he just let it fall to the bed behind him. Not waiting for more instruction, his hands next went to the knot in his tie. It fell open under his deft fingers, and he left it looped under his collar as he started on the tiny, ivory buttons on his shirt. That made Dean's eyes drop, and Castiel felt a rush inside of him as Dean watched the small movements until the last button was freed. It was as though Dean was waiting for that moment because as soon as the shirt was open, Dean moved in to slide it, tie and all, back off of Castiel's shoulders. Pushing it to the bed put Dean's cheek against his.

"Stand up," the whispered words were honey.

Castiel moved to obey, but Dean did not step back to give him the space to do so. As a result, they moved together, Castiel all but using his body to push Dean upright. The movement pressed them against one another, and it was only natural for Castiel to take Dean's hips in his hands then slide them around the smooth skin of his back while Dean's hands ran up Castiel's arms and encircled his body. His mouth dipped into the curve of Dean's neck, and he pressed his lips to him, gently at first, then opening his mouth to taste Dean's skin and nip at him with his teeth. Dean's sharp intake of breath emboldened him to bite harder. Dean hissed and took a handful of Castiel's hair again. He pulled Castiel to his mouth, and crushed their lips together. The kiss built in intensity as they explored each other.

Dean turned and moved, pulling Castiel with him, not breaking the connection between their lips as he shoved Castiel's discarded clothes aside before guiding them to both kneel on the bed. Before Castiel's feet hit the mattress, he quickly toed off his shoes. They hit the carpeted floor with soft thuds, but Castiel's mind was more on the feel of Dean's back muscles under his touch as they tensed and rolled with his movements to balance himself on the bed, on the taste of Dean's mouth as their tongues warred with each other, on the growing desire within himself, manifesting physically between the press of their bodies.

One of Dean's hands was still tangled in Castiel's hair, loosely now, and the other gripped his shoulder when Dean broke the kiss with a ragged intake of breath and pulled back enough to put Castiel into focus. At this proximity, Castiel was able to see every freckle in the light dusting across Dean's cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. Without thought, he lifted a hand and ran the pad of his finger along the avenue of dots. Dean flinched back, confused.

"What are you doing?"

"Freckles," was all he could say. Dean blushed and tried to turn his head, but Castiel stopped him. "Are you familiar with the child's tale that freckles are marks on your body where an angel has kissed you?"

"Are you saying you kissed me everywhere, Cas?" Dean asked with a smirk.

"No, but I am saying if that lore were true, I would envy the angel that had."

Dean opened his mouth; no sound came out.

"But you've never lain with an angel before, have you, Dean?" Castiel let his hand drift down Dean's cheek, past his chin, to the front of his throat... "Never known the embrace of the celestial." ...down his chest, fingertips grazing over a nipple which hardened under his touch as he passed it and traveled lower... "Never been-" he gripped Dean's waistband, tugging Dean's groin against him. "-consumed by it."

Dean grunted with the force then rolled his hips against Castiel. His answer wasn't what Castiel expected. In fact, he didn't answer at all. Instead, he said, "We gotta figure out who's in charge here, Cas. This back and forth stuff is giving me whiplash."

"What do you propose?" Castiel nuzzled at the curve of Dean's neck once more, brushing his lips across the rounded shoulder and back again, marveling at the freckles there too. It seemed like now that he had taken a particular interest in them, he could see more and more scattered across Dean's body.

"I prop-- pro-- I, uh. Fuck, Cas. You're making it hard to think."

Castiel hummed and smiled against Dean's shoulder, and he lightly drew his teeth over him again, causing Dean's breath to hitch. "Am I?"

"You know damn well you are."

"Then don't think." Castiel guided him to lay back on the bed. "Just feel."

He positioned himself over Dean, hands pressing into the mattress on either side of the hunter's shoulders, and slowly lowered his face down for another kiss. Castiel drank deeply of his mouth again, reveling in the essence that was Dean Winchester. His lips left Dean's and worked his way down Dean's body, an echo of what had taken place during the last dream he had visited. This time, however, when he found himself at Dean's unbuttoned waistband, there was no need for a flash of lightning to see the exquisite bounty before him. And when he rolled his eyes upward to see Dean lustfully staring back, reality wasn't ripped away from him as the dream had been. He watched Dean's chest rise as the hunter took a deep breath along with the motion of Castiel sliding the zipper tab down, parting the teeth to reveal yellow-trimmed, black boxer-briefs. They were barely containing the strain of what was hidden within.

Castiel spread the fly of the jeans wide; he put his open mouth against the bulge under the briefs and let his tongue splay against it, wetting the fabric. Dean groaned in the back of his throat as his back arched, and he pushed his hips up toward Castiel. Castiel used the motion to tuck his hands under Dean's hips, and -grabbing both waistbands- smoothly pulled both garments down at once. Dean's cock spilled long and thick out of his clothing to lay nestled in the crook of his hip. The sight of it made Castiel stare. It was perfect, beautiful, just like the rest of Dean. He couldn't resist skimming his fingertips along the tight skin from base to head and back again. Dean arched and squirmed, obviously torn between letting his eyes squeeze closed or watching Castiel as he touched him.

Castiel had to stand on the floor to finish removing Dean's undergarments, jeans, and socks. As he did so, Dean reached under the small of his back and produced a gun, which he wordlessly stuck under the pillow. Castiel ignored it; he knew Dean almost always went armed, even when alone in a hotel room. He had only just lifted a knee to return to his previous position when Dean stopped him.

"Don't get back into this bed until you're naked."

Castiel took the opportunity to admire Dean's nude form while undressing for him. Dean, for his part, actually reached down and began stroking himself, prompting Castiel to disrobe more quickly. Suitably unclothed, Castiel crawled his way between Dean's legs and wrapped his hand around Dean's, helping him pump up and down. After a few strokes, Dean spoke again.

"You ready to take over?"

Castiel nodded, and Dean let his hand slip away. His eyes closed, and his head tilted back into the pillow as Castiel wrapped his hand fully around his cock for the first time. The skin was unlike any other part of his body, pulled tightly across his erection, velvety smooth. Castiel played his hand along the shaft, turning his wrist just so, coaxing sounds of pleasure from Dean. It wasn't long before Castiel had to taste him. A shimmering drop of precome had formed at Dean's tip, and it tantalized him. He bent down and used the very tip of his tongue to claim it.

"Ohhhh fuuuck," Dean breathed, jerking his hips up at Castiel again and lifting his head to give him wild eyes. "Please don't stop."

Keeping eye contact, Castiel swirled his tongue around the head of Dean's cock and enveloped it into his mouth.

"Son of a bitch." Dean threw himself back onto the pillow and grabbed fistfuls of blanket. "Fuck, Cas. That feels fucking amazing."

With Dean laying back again, Castiel focused on bobbing his head up and down on Dean's cock, rotating his wrist as his hand kept rhythm along with his oral ministrations. Dean rewarded him with hums and moans and the inability to lay still.

"Mmm, Cas, I want to fuck you." The words reached Castiel's ears the same time Dean's hand touched his shoulder. He stopped what he was doing with his mouth and slowed his hand to look up at Dean. "Climb on top of me. Give me your ass."

Castiel didn't hesitate, though he did drop his head again to leave a generous amount of saliva where he planned to seat himself. He straddled Dean's hips and nestled Dean's cock in the crack of his buttocks, sending a thrill of lust and anticipation through him. Dean reached for him and pulled him down into another kiss. The act trapped Castiel's own hard member between their pelvises, and the pressure made him rut involuntarily against Dean. He felt Dean smile against his lips right before his bottom lip was caught between Dean's teeth. Castiel couldn't help but grind again. Dean released his lip.

"You need it as badly as I do, don't you?"

Castiel nodded.

"Say it," he hissed. "I want to hear you say it."

"I need it."

"What do you need?" Dean took Castiel's hips and held him in place as he rotated his own hips, teasing Castiel's exposed hole with his saliva-slicked tool. Desire sizzled through him; his body torn between rutting forward against Dean or easing backwards to let Dean claim him.

The reversal of their earlier conversation was not lost on Castiel, but before he could bite his tongue to not replay it exactly, he gasped out, "You."

"You already have me," Dean teased, rolling his hips upward again, causing Castiel to throw his head back and close his eyes against the sensations crashing over him. "What do you need?"

"Fuck me." The word was foreign on his tongue, but it was exactly right. In this instant, there was no other word for what he wanted -what he needed- from Dean. He dropped his gaze back to Dean's and said it again. "I need you to fuck me."

He felt a shudder run through Dean's body as Dean let go of his hip and -after depositing his own saliva on his hand- reached down to line his cock up to Castiel's waiting entrance. The moment the angle was right, Castiel had to fight himself to not simply slam down and take Dean completely. Even though, as an angel of the Lord, the act wouldn't hurt him, as with everything else tonight, this was something to savor. He eased backwards as Dean lifted his hips, and they slowly rocked against one another to work Dean's cock inside of him. Each thrust built the intensity that surrounded them until Castiel was fully seated on Dean. Dean cupped Castiel's hips while Castiel braced on Dean's chest. They paused in that position, both breathing deeply and staring intently into each others' eyes. Castiel could feel Dean's heart pounding under his palm and knew that his own pulse was racing as well.

Slowly, Castiel began to gyrate his hips, but it didn't take long for Dean to take over. He used his grip on Castiel's hips to hold the angel in place while he pumped his cock in and out. He did precisely as Castiel had requested: he was fucking him. And Castiel was enjoying every long, hard stroke of it.

After a time, Dean faltered, and he stilled his hips. Castiel looked at him questioningly.

A breathy chuckle curled from Dean. "I'm getting close," he admitted, "and I haven't done this yet." His hand left Castiel's hip and boldly wrapped around the achingly hard cock between them.

"You didn't... ...have to," Castiel choked out as he squirmed under Dean's stroking.

"But I want to."

Dean's hips adopted a lazy rhythm which Castiel caught and mimicked as Dean slid his hand along Castiel's cock. The doubled pleasure sent Castiel's head into a spin. He let his eyes close and let the pleasure pour over and through him. His time in existence could barely be measured, but never in all of his days had he given over to such a feeling.

"Cas..."

Castiel opened his eyes at the sound of his name. Dean had slowed his actions and was looking at something behind him. Castiel turned his head to see, but Dean said it for him.

"Your wings..."

A shadowy impression of his wings had, indeed, been revealed. He looked back to Dean. "The act of orgasm is to let go fully, is it not? To lose all control." He waited for Dean to nod. "If I do not control it, my wings will become visible. Completely."

Dean's eyes danced across his face. "Completely? You mean there's more to see?" He punctuated his question with a squeeze of his hand and extra pump of his hips.

"Yesss," Castiel stuttered over him.

Dean renewed his rhythm of stroking and fucking. "Then I want you to lose control," he panted. "Let go for me. I want to see all of you." His hand coaxed Castiel's release closer to the surface.

Enormous black wings erupted through the shadows and into the physical plane, beating heavily moments before Castiel shouted his ecstasy and spilled his seed across Dean's stomach and up his chest.

"Oh, Cas. Fuck yes, Castiel. My angel." Dean snatched at his hips and went rigid under him, eyes dazzled and unfocused in his orgasmic state before they fluttered shut. Castiel felt Dean's cock pulse inside of him, unloading his own ejaculate.

 _My angel._ Castiel liked the sound of that.


	17. Chapter 17

Sam and Isabelle had decided fairly quickly after entering the arcade that they weren't worried about winning tickets; this evening was only for the fun of it. With that in mind, they spent most of their time hovering around the more classic games that spit only a few tickets at a time, no matter how well the player did.

Isabelle proved herself to be quite adept at Down a Clown. She had swiped the card on the game before Sam even had a chance to focus on it, and when the balls came rolling down the chute, Isabelle had exclaimed, "This is for you, Sam!" before snatching them up one by one and knocking clowns over with each throw. Sam had averted his eyes from the game, though, and had to avert them again when he found he was getting excited while staring a little too hard at how Isabelle's breasts bounced with each throw. As the last clown fell, Isabelle jumped up, throwing her arms in the air, "Yeah! Take that, evil clowns!" She turned to see that Sam wasn't watching. Her elation withered. "Oh. Oh, I'm so sorry. You really don't like them, do you?"

"I just, uh, I prefer to not be around them," Sam replied uneasily.

Isabelle pressed herself against his side, grabbing his hand with both of hers. "Okay, no more clowns. Let's see how good you are at Skeeball."

As it turned out, the two of them were evenly matched at Skeeball. They took turns beating each others' high scores while giving good-natured trash talk when they weren't the one rolling the balls along the ramp.

The evening progressed in a whirl of colored lights, plings and beeps of game machines, and body language that all but screamed their attraction to one another. Isabelle kept finding reasons to wrap herself around Sam's arm, and Sam couldn't seem to keep his hands out of Isabelle's hair or off her smooth, bare shoulders.

As they passed a row of games, Isabelle paused, pulling Sam to a stop. "I'm sure you get asked this all the time, Gigantes, but are you any good at basketball?"

"I'm 6'4", so I must be good at it, right?"

"I was just wondering!"

Sam laughed. "Actually, yeah, I'm pretty good."

"Wow, really? I honestly thought you'd say no. I didn't expect you to be a walking cliché."

"Oh, thanks."

Isabelle laughed and swiped the card at Super Shot. She used both hands to grandly gesture at the machine as its starting music blared. "Game on!"

Sam lifted one of the basketballs that fell into the opening and took his shot.  _ Sink. _ He grabbed another and threw.  _ Sink. _ The timer ticked down, and the backboard holding the hoop slid back and forth to challenge his depth perception. Sam got every point. The buzzer sounded.

"Holy crap! That was amazing!" Isabelle gushed.

"Your turn."

"What? No way! I suck at basketball!"

Sam plucked the card from her hand and swiped it in the game slot. A crowd cheered, and the music started playing. "Time's counting down."

"Ugh, fine!" Isabelle snatched up a ball and threw it. It barely touched the net. "Ugh." She threw another. It bounced off the rim. "Dammit!" Ball after ball got lobbed at the hoop, and each one missed. "Come on!" Her last ball before the buzzer actually made it in. "WOO! I did it!!" Isabelle actually jumped up into Sam's arms, and he was forced to catch her. Feeling her excitement, Sam spun them around a full rotation and set her back down.

"Do it again," he urged.

"Oh God, no!" she laughed. But Sam had already started the game again.

Her second play landed no points, and when the end buzzer sounded, Isabelle buried her face in her hands in defeat.

"Isabelle. I'm so sorry." Sam placed a hand on her shoulder, and his soft voice was so full of compassion that Isabelle lowered her hands and looked up at him quizzically. "You didn't make the team this year."

"You turd!" Isabelle grinned and aimed a punch at Sam's shoulder. Years of training allowed him to block it without thinking, and Isabelle took notice. She playfully squared off in front of him and aimed more punches at his shoulders and midsection. They were both laughing as Sam easily deflected each blow.

Suddenly, her tiny fist was flying at Sam's chin. He squarely caught it in the palm of his hand. Eyes wide, he let out a shocked, "You weren't pulling that; you were actually going to punch me in the face."

"You weren't going to let me," she replied smugly.

Sam turned her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth. Watching her eyes, he pressed his lips to the web of skin between her thumb and first finger. What he saw on her face encouraged him to open his mouth slightly and drag his dampened bottom lip along her skin while letting the heat of his breath warm her before lowering her hand. He loosened his grip so she was free to pull away if she wanted to, but she didn't move as he slid his fingertips from her wrist all the way up to her shoulder where he made tiny circles on her skin until he felt goosebumps rise under his touch.

"You're doing that on purpose," Isabelle accused.

Sam nodded.

"It's working," she said with a shiver.

"At the risk of sounding too forward, did you have a third part of the date in mind?" Sam slid his hand up and ran his fingers through the short hair at the base of Isabelle's neck, over and over as he talked. "Because I was hoping I might have passed your test."

"Mmm, you want to know if I think you're strange?" She rolled her head, nuzzling back against the feel of his hand in her hair.

"We both already know I'm strange. I want to know if I can take you home."

The sparkle in her eyes was all the answer he needed.

On their way out the door, Isabelle informed Sam that she lived there in Gothenburg and was perfectly fine with leaving her truck at My Thai for the night since she could easily retrieve it the next morning. They got into the Impala, and Isabelle gave the first set of directions to get to her house. She had already kicked off her shoes and had her feet curled under herself again as she had on their way to the arcade. This time, it was her turn to play her fingers through Sam's hair. She also let her fingertips brush the side of his neck, and it felt like there was a bundle of nerves that connected her touch to his dick.

Every so often, Sam would try to look over at his date, but she would press her fingertips to his jaw and guide his face forward again. "Eyes on the road," she teased. "We want to get there in one piece, don't we?" The front of his pants got tighter and tighter as she stroked his skin and he followed her directions. It was the longest ten minute drive Sam had ever made.

He parked in front of the house Isabelle point out, but Sam paid no attention to the building itself. As soon as the keys were out of the ignition and their seatbelts were off, Sam reached across the seat to gather Isabelle into his arms. She rose to her knees to meet him, and their mouths found each others' in a hungry kiss. Isabelle's hands disappeared into Sam's long hair, and Sam's took a firm grip on her hips. He felt her shift, and he helped guide one knee over his legs to allow her to straddle his lap.

The loud blare of the car horn startled them to freeze in place. Isabelle giggled into the silence. "That was my butt." A smile spread across Sam's face, and they laughed together. "Let's go inside."

"Best idea I've heard all night."

Isabelle climbed back off of Sam and gathered her shoes and purse before exiting the Impala. Sam got out too, making sure to retrieve the keys from where he had dropped them on the seat. He allowed his gaze to drift down Isabelle's body and back up again as he rounded the car to join where she waited.

"Stop undressing me with your eyes, Sam," Isabelle purred when he met her gaze again. "Use your hands."

He drew up before her and slipped his fingers under one spaghetti strap of her dress. "Right now?" He slipped it down and off her shoulder.

Isabelle put a hand on his and replaced the thin strap of black fabric. "As tempting as that is, I wouldn't want to scandalize the Joneses."

"You think they're watching?" He reached for the strap on her other shoulder, but only to run a finger along it, teasing the idea of pulling it down.

"After my ass honked the horn? Mrs. Jones is probably looking out her blinds at us right now," Isabelle replied with a laugh. She took his hand in hers and led him to her front door. "Come on."

Sam stood behind her as she dug around in her purse, playing across the bare skin of her shoulders and back, making nonsensical, swirling patterns with his fingertips. He felt her shiver under his touch just before she got the correct key into the doorknob and pushed the door open. She turned to Sam and pulled him through the open doorway by his waistband. Her keys, shoes, and purse hit the floor, and the door was barely closed behind them when Sam lifted her by the backs of her thighs and pressed her against the wall in the foyer. Isabelle wrapped her legs around his waist, causing the short dress to ride up.

Satin panties met rough denim as mouth met mouth. Sam devoured the soft, pink lips that parted and gave him access to her hot tongue. Tiny moans of desire hummed from her throat as they kissed, and they served only to fan the flames of Sam's desire. He broke the kiss and mouthed across her jaw and up to her ear.

"Direct me to a bed, or so help me, I will fuck you right here against this wall," he growled.

"I'm not stopping you," she answered breathily.

To that, Sam crushed his mouth to hers again. He shifted her weight, holding her tiny frame up a little higher against his body with just one arm, and he used his unburdened hand to open his belt and pants to free the erection that had been pressing against its wrappings since she had started teasing him in the car. Something scraped his cheek. He pulled back from the kiss and looked to see a square, golden wrapper held between Isabelle's first two fingers.

"Not that I'm objecting to wearing it, but where was that?"

"Bras: they're not just for titties anymore." She used her teeth to rip the wrapper open and held it for Sam to pull the condom out.

"Was it in there this whole time?"

"Guess you'll never know."

Sam dipped his head to Isabelle's cleavage.  "Anything else in there?" he asked as he bit the top of one breast, while under her, he rolled the condom on. 

Isabelle gasped at the bite and arched against him. The motion surged blood into his dick. He suddenly didn't care what else she had hidden in her bra -aside from two things, anyway- and wanted nothing more than to bury himself inside of her. He reached for the satin panties and found them wet through already. It brought a groan of anticipation from him.

Sam pulled the crotch of the panties aside and delved two fingers into Isabelle's wet slit. She cried out at the sudden intrusion. He couldn't wait any longer; foreplay be damned. Sam slipped his fingers from her, grabbed his dick, and lined it up. With one thrust, he lowered her down and pushed the entire, thick length of himself into Isabelle's tight entrance. She screamed out his name and dug her fingernails into his shoulders; he could feel them through the layers of fabric.

Sam adjusted their stance, and he fucked her fast and hard against the wall, just as he had told her he would. With each stroke, he pulled almost all the way out and slammed himself in as deeply as he could. Isabelle cried out with every thrust. He buried his face in her chest, kissing and biting at the smooth, bouncing flesh her dress revealed.

"Oh God, Sam! I'm... I'm..." A scream ripped from Isabelle's throat, and Sam felt her pussy spasm around his dick, squeezing, squeezing. It milked him closer to release. He pumped into her harder, grinding her against the wall until he growled out his own orgasm and filled the condom.

Both of them were panting heavily when Sam withdrew from Isabelle and carefully let her feet drop to the floor while keeping a steadying arm around her. She stood on wobbly legs, holding onto Sam for balance.

"That was... wow," she whispered, leaning her forehead on his chest for a moment as she caught her breath.

"It gets better," he promised.

"And he's modest too," she said with a small laugh before looking up at him. "You're gonna have to let me get some water first, but after that, you have all night to prove that boast."

Sam pulled the condom off and tucked himself away. "Challenge accepted."


	18. Chapter 18

Dean was laid back, feeling utterly relaxed, and knowing that euphoria was plainly written across his face. Cas had unseated himself, but only to move over on the bed and sit next to Dean's legs, facing him. Laying with an angel meant Dean didn't have to fret over using condoms, which was just as well because he was fairly certain all of his had driven away with Sam earlier in the evening. All they would have prevented with Cas anyhow was to contain the slick, white evidence of their coupling, but with a touch, the angel had cleaned the sticky mess they had made of each other. In a way, Dean would have preferred they had taken a shower together to clean up, but then Cas would have had to put his wings away, and Dean could admit he wasn't ready for that. He examined the cave of shining feathers that surrounded them. Cas was careful to hold his wings still under the scrutiny. To call them black was not entirely accurate. There was a sheen to them, a certain way they caught the light that gave them more than a flat black color. There were purples, blues, greens, and golds hidden within the black. They were like oil slicks in the sunlight. There was a hidden, riotous rainbow that couldn't be called just black.

They were also much larger than the shadows he had flashed at Dean when they first met. That was a memory Dean would never forget. Those wings had dominated the wall behind Cas. It had been intimidating and more than a little bit sexy. Dean knew that night had been the start of something between them, though Cas still insisted it had started the moment he pulled Dean out of the Pit, a moment Dean couldn't remember, and he was afraid of trying too hard. Either way, the branded handprint on Dean's shoulder told of their bond. Dean thought again about the shadowy wings. Maybe having them physically curled around the bed as they were, they only seemed bigger than in shadow form.

Dean was quiet for a long time. As he allowed these thoughts to dance through his head, his hand ran idly up and down Cas's thigh, roughing and smoothing the dark hairs. He couldn't make himself stop touching his angel. He didn't want to stop. When he finally did speak, it was in hushed awe. "Cas, they're..." he searched for the right word to say. 'Awesome' was his usual go-to word, but the angel's wings were more than that. Amazing? Wonderful? Dean wanted something better, but he wasn't a freaking thesaurus. He met Cas's gaze. "They're beautiful."

Blue eyes looked down and back up, as though Cas was struggling with accepting the compliment. But a small, pleased -bashful?- smile tugged at his mouth.

"Can I touch them?" Dean was afraid he had asked the wrong question when it wiped Cas's smile away and widened his eyes. Dean stilled his hand. "If that's okay. I- I don't have to if you don't want me to."

"No. I mean, yes. I mean..." Cas collected himself and tried again. "Dean, no one has ever touched them before; no one has ever asked to."

Dean squeezed Cas's thigh and couldn't resist a cocky grin. "I'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that no one has ever claimed that sweet ass of yours either. Yet here we are."

"That is a correct assessment," Cas confirmed with a nod. "You are the first to have done so. And to make the comparison was rather astute of you. The very idea of you touching my wings..." in Cas's pause, Dean saw the slightest stir of his cock, a pulse of promises to come. He raised an eyebrow, feeling the smug grin splitting his face.

"It turns you on," he finished for the angel.

Cas nodded. "It does, indeed, 'turn me on.'"

"Wow, Cas, I gotta say, this is a whole new level of kink for me." Dean's tone was light, playful, but he could feel the look in his eyes grow more carnal. He sat up and lifted a hand toward the black feathers, but Cas lifted the wings up and back just before his outstretched fingers could contact them. The motion made Dean give Cas questioning eyes.

"I think, maybe, it should wait."

"Wait? For what?"

"Please."

Dean was hedonistic enough to not like being denied pleasure -either taking or giving it- particularly when it was right there in front of him. But even without an explanation, Cas sounded adamant about waiting. Dean thought back to Cas's words earlier that evening.  _ "I will always come to you to make sure you get what you need." _ Cas had certainly given Dean what he needed. Now Cas needed time; Dean was willing to grant him that. He didn't understand it, but he accepted that he didn't have to.

"Sure, Cas." Dean eased back from reaching. "Whatever you need."

"While we are discussing needs, I would daresay you may need sleep. Time has progressed into the AM hours."

"What? Already?" Dean leaned up to look past Cas at the small clock between the beds. It read 2:17.

"I believe there is an idiom about flying time."

Dean barked a laugh as he looked at Cas again while he repositioned himself onto his pillow. "Yeah. I had fun too." As he lay back, he thought about how he felt, and he realized fatigue truly was creeping over him. With that, a sudden yawn struck. Cas's single nod seemed to take it as a confirmation that he was right about Dean's need for rest.

"I don't need to sleep, as you know, but I am willing to lay with you if you desire the companionship."

"No need to be all Mr. Spock about it," Dean squeezed out through another yawn. "But yeah, I think some company would be nice. Get the light, will you?"

Cas reached between the beds and a click accompanied the semi-darkness that took over the room. The orange glow from the streetlamp outside still allowed enough light through the curtains for Dean to see Cas's outline next to him, and he watched as Cas tucked his wings in tightly against his back and settled onto his stomach next to him. Dean stretched out on his back, resting his hands on his chest. The lines of their thighs were pressed firmly against each other, and Dean rather liked the feel of it. Sleep started sucking him under almost immediately.

"Cas?" he murmured as his eyes drifted shut.

"Yes, Dean?"

"I want you to come to my dreams more often."

A soft, slithering rustle was the only audible response, and it preceded a warm weight that stretched from just below his hands on his chest, all the way down his entire body, hugging his nudity. He blinked his eyes open a slit to see that Cas had stretched a wing across him, offering it like a living blanket. Dean couldn't resist; he slid one hand down to set it gently on the top edge. The knowledge that his touch there could be a turn-on kept him from stroking the soft, downy feathers; he only wanted to feel them under his hand. He felt Cas tense next him, likely anticipating more, but after a moment of realizing Dean was only resting his hand on his wing, the angel relaxed. Warmth suffused Dean, and that night, he slept better, more content, than he had in a long time.


	19. Chapter 19

The next morning, Sam let himself into the hotel room, bursting with wanting to tell Dean all about his date. Or, well, most of it. It had been at Dean's urging that he had called Isabelle to begin with, but it wasn't as though Sam was going to give Dean details about the multiple rounds of sex they had had or the way Isabelle did that thing with her--

Sam stopped short at the sight before him. At first impression, it appeared there was a giant, black bird sprawled across Dean's bed, but a closer look revealed something else entirely. One huge wing was draped lazily to the floor between the beds while the other covered most of Dean's body protectively, though Dean had an arm out and snuggled around it as he slept. The wings sprouted from the back of a very nude Castiel who was encircled by Dean's other arm and nuzzled into Dean's bare shoulder.

Once his brain finished processing everything his eyes saw, Sam silently crept from the room and closed the door behind him. He pressed his back to the door, a huge smile spreading across his face.  _ Okay, go find some coffee. _ He pushed himself away from the door and back to the car to leave the hotel and let his brother sort out his morning on his own. Internally, though, he was screaming like a thirteen-year-old girl at a Bieber concert. Seeing Dean and Cas together like that explained  _ so much _ , yet it also raised  _ so many _ questions, the biggest of which was, should he tell Dean he had seen them? Because if the answer to that question was no, it was a good possibility none of his other questions could be asked.

Questions like: How long has this been going on? Is it a new development? Because if so, what the hell took so long? Or if not, why have they been hiding it? Sam had known for a long time that his brother and Cas had feelings for each other. The tension when they were together in a room was thick enough even for his giant ass to walk on. But was that because they were trying to keep it from everyone? Or because they still hadn't done anything about it? Until now, of course.

Brimming with questions that would likely go unanswered, Sam pulled into the parking lot of Martha Jo's. In his haste to dip out of the room, he had left his laptop back at the hotel, so before heading inside, he stopped at the vending box to buy a newspaper.

"Hey sugar!" At this early hour on a Sunday, only one other table was occupied, and Jenn was sitting when he walked in. She lifted to her feet and followed him to his table. "Get'cha some coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"Somethin' to eat?"

"No, thank you. I already ate."

Jenn lifted an eyebrow and cocked her head at that, and she stayed at the side of the table as though waiting for more of an explanation. She knew and Sam knew that there was nowhere else in the small town for travelers staying in the hotel to have gotten breakfast. Sam simply smiled up at her until she left for the coffee.

Sam had woken to the feel of Isabelle's fingers tracing the tattoo on his chest. It hadn't taken long for both of them to have their hands on each other. Sam didn't lie to Jenn about having eaten this morning, but First Breakfast hadn't been food. He had taken nothing for himself, but he left Isabelle as a quivering bundle of satisfied nerve endings, tucked under her blanket to bask as he raided her kitchen to cook both of them breakfast. He had planned to carry the completed meal into the bedroom for her, but she met him in the kitchen wearing nothing more than a cool rainbow of sex-tousled hair and a smile. That led him to lifting her up and fucking her right there, perched on the edge of the kitchen counter.

Thinking about it made Sam have to shift in his seat and pluck at the legs of his jeans, trying to covertly hide his growing erection. Of course, Jenn would choose that moment to arrive at the table. She set down a hot mug and poured coffee into it. "You enjoyin' your time in Curtis, Agent?"

She was prying for gossip, but instead of feeding her, he honed in on the end of her question. "I never told you I'm with the FBI."

"No..." She smiled and winked. "But word spreads." Just like that, she let him know that if he wasn't going to tell her what he had been up to, she would find out on her own.

"It sure does." Let her do the digging elsewhere; Sam wasn't going to simply hand it to her by giving her a tell-all. Personally, he didn't care whether people knew about his night with Isabelle, but given this was her parents' town, and therefore to a smaller extent, hers, he would leave it to her to divulge any details she wanted to share.

Smiling as though she had done something clever, Jenn sashayed away.

Sam had been reading the paper for a good while and was on his second cup of coffee when his phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked it to see a text from Dean.

 

_ D: You still shacked up with your new toy? _

Sam typed out  _ Are you? _ But he stopped himself -just barely- from hitting send. He backspaced and started over.

_ S: At Martha Jo's. Want me to bring you something to eat? _

_ D: Eggs. Extra bacon and sausage. _

Sam smirked.  _ Didn't get enough sausage last night, big brother?  _ His fingers itched to make the joke, but he refrained.

_ D: Don't forget coffee. _

 

Sam flagged Jenn down and placed the to-go order. He waited until she delivered the styrofoam container and lidded coffee cup to the table before sending Dean another text to tell him he was on the way. Then he took his time in folding up the newspaper and paying for the food. He wanted to give Dean plenty of opportunity to get cleaned up and dressed. With how Sam had seen them, he had no doubts that a shower would be high on Dean's list of priorities. He could use one himself, if he was being honest.

Oh. Shit, he probably had the smell of sex just wafting off of him and tickling Jenn's nose each time she visited his table. It was only a matter of time before the waitress figured out who he had spent the night with. Oh well; as long as Sam didn't kiss and tell, he wouldn't feel bad about how fast news traveled.

 

.oOo.

 

The hotel door opened about the same time Dean walked out of the bathroom, dressed in a clean, black t-shirt and jeans and scrubbing his towel across his short hair.

"'Bout time," he quipped. "Did you take the scenic route or something?"

"Uh, no. Just... talking to Jenn," Sam replied as he unloaded the food and newspaper he had in his arms. His eyes scanned the room as though looking for something.

Dean resisted the urge to look too. Cas was gone, having disappeared sometime in the night, Dean supposed. He knew they had fallen asleep laying next to each other, that after he had cuddled Cas's wing against himself, it wasn't much longer before Cas wiggled closer, and Dean had opened his other arm to pull Cas in against him. It had just felt so good -so right- to have him there. And, damn, he had slept incredibly well. Having the angel there against him was much more satisfying than any dreams. It honestly disappointed him a little that Cas was gone when he woke up, but Dean had a strong suspicion it had a lot to do with not letting Sam catch them laying there buck naked. Man, it would have been awkward to wake up to the sound of his little brother walking in on that particular image. Maybe it was just as well that Cas left before that happened.

Dean dropped his wet towel on the floor, earning an exasperated look from Sam, which he ignored, and put himself in a chair at the little table. He slid the food container closer and helped himself to the steaming meal inside. "Have a good night?" he asked between bites. He could swear he watched his giant, moose of a brother melt right before his eyes.

"Dude, it was... she was..." Sam dropped into the other chair, absolutely starry-eyed. "Thank you."

Dean laughed. "What're you thanking me for? You're the one who got her number."

"Yeah, but you're the one who insisted I call as soon as I did."

"Face it, Sammy, if I hadn't pushed, you wouldn't have called."

"I know. So again, thank you."

"That good, huh?"

"You have no idea. We ran out of condoms."

Dean choked on the crumble of bacon in his mouth. After coughing it loose and taking some soothing sips of coffee, he was able to speak. "Happy for ya. Stop talking."

It was Sam's turn to laugh. He moved away from the table and dug some clothes out of the dresser under the television. "I'm gonna take a shower."

"Good, 'cause you stink like sex."

"There are worse things," Sam threw over his shoulder as he disappeared into the bathroom.

By the time Sam emerged from the bathroom with his long hair slicked back from being brushed and already falling back down around his face to dampen the shoulders of his white, v-neck shirt, Dean had added a red flannel, his watch, and his footwear to his ensemble. "Ready to go to church?"

"Excuse me?"

"It's Sunday. We have some B&E to do. One of us should go to the church to draw attention away while the other goes spontoon-searching. I'm already calling it; I get the Barton's house, you get God's house."

"Yeah, about that... I can't."

"Can't? Why the hell not?"

"I didn't tell you everything about last night."

"Look, I get it. But no matter how many times you and the girl bumped uglies last night-"

"And this morning."

"-and this morning. Jesus, Sammy." Dean shook away any mental images before they formed. " _ Anyway _ , I doubt it was enough for you to burst into flames upon walking into a church."

"No, it's not that." Sam sighed. "'The girl' has a name. Isabelle  _ Barton _ ."

"Barton?"

"Yeah. Barton. If I show up at her father's church the next morning after one date, I'm as good as labeling myself as either a stalker or obsessed or both, at least as far as this little town's concerned. Jenn took one look at me this morning and immediately started prodding for information. Like she could smell it on me."

"She probably could," Dean replied, giving Sam's crotch a quick side-eye.

Sam harrumphed. "That's not what I meant." Dean snickered as his brother continued. "I just think I need to lay low today. You can do this without me drawing attention away; you've broken into plenty of houses and buildings."

"Yeah, yeah. You're right."

"And leave the car."

"What??"

"Dude, it's the most recognizable car on the planet. If you park it in front of the Barton's house, everyone in the town is going to know one of us is in there."

"First of all, she is a 'she,' not an 'it.'" Dean ignored Sam's eyeroll. "And B, I'm pretty sure we've already had this conversation about walking versus driving."

"Yeah, we did, and I told you it won't kill you to walk more."

"I don't want to hear it. You walked and got spinal-sucked by a kiv'dah."

Sam lifted a finger. "Gross. But my point stands. You can't park the Impala anywhere in this town without people taking notice."

Dean grumbled, but he knew his brother was right. Baby was a sexy car, and people tended to stare. They just can't help but admire her beautiful curves; Dean knew he couldn't. "Fine," he conceded in a grumpy tone, "but don't like it."


	20. Chapter 20

Less than half an hour later, Dean was letting himself inside Father and Mrs. Barton's house after his knocks went unanswered. The trusting sons of bitches didn't even lock their front door when they left. Huzzah, small town living. He had at least convinced Sam to drop him off a block over from his destination so he didn't have to walk all the way from the hotel. The biggest part of his argument was that he'd have to pass the church to get to the house, which was a few streets further north. What if someone saw him and tried to invite him in? That wasn't something he was prepared to deal with. As they drove by, it appeared most of the town's population was in attendance, and Dean was grateful he had won Sam over on this point.

The house was nice; the yard and small front flower bed were well manicured, the siding was apparently power-washed often, and the tastefully painted yellow front door opened smoothly without any errant squeak to announce his entrance. He closed it behind himself and set to work. First order of business was to find Daniel's room. Logic took him upstairs.

The hallway boasted six doors, and he checked in each room in turn, starting with his right. It appeared to be an unused guest room. Across from it was a teenage girl's room -Isabelle's maybe, since this was her parent's house, and they likely kept her room like that from when she moved out. Next to that was a tiny linen closet across from a bathroom. Finally, Dean checked the two rooms at the end of the hall. On the left was the master suite. That meant the final room was what he wanted.

Dean opened the door to a teenage boy's room. The Bartons had obviously tried their hand at adding some religion into the room by way of a cross hanging between the two windows and the words "Jesus Loves You" actually painted right onto the wall below it. The rest of the room, however, expressed the boy who lived there. Movie posters donned the rest of the walls. A couple of hockey sticks were propped into the corner next to a gym bag that radiated a stench of BO that only got stronger when Dean got closer. The green apron Daniel wore to work hung neatly on a hook on a closet door. A rack of school books sat low on the floor, next to a desk covered with papers and an open workbook. It suddenly occurred to Dean that he had seen Daniel at work during normal school hours. Why wasn't hadn't he been at school? Dean flipped the workbook closed to see the cover. "Homeschooling with the Lord" was printed in tiny letters across the top, and the title dominated the rest of it: "The 100 Most Important Events in Christian History." Wow, okay. He left it open to the same page it had been on and turned to the bed.

If there was one place a teenage boy would hide something important, it was between the mattress and boxspring. Dean moved the plush, blue comforter out of the way and lifted the mattress. He nearly laughed aloud at what he saw. Three issues of "Busty Asian Beauties"were stacked there, the covers crumpled and a little worse for wear for having been shoved into place countless times. Dean fanned them out and gave an approving nod. He had seen all three himself, and he approved of Daniel's choice to keep one of them in particular.

Dean dropped the mattress back in place and rummaged under the bed. Nothing. He checked the closet. On the floor, on the shelf above the hanger rods, he even checked to make sure the panel on the back wall didn't come off, just in case. Nothing. The floor was carpeted, so there was no hope of finding a loose floor board. Dean fell to digging through the dresser drawers, the desk drawer, and finally -while holding his breath- the odorous gym bag full of hockey gear and a jersey that was still damp with sweat around the collar. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Dean zipped the bag and wiped a hand on his jeans in disgust, but he was also puzzled. Where the hell was this kid's spontoon? Unless... the thought sunk disheartening claws into Dean's brain. Unless Daniel wasn't a traditionalist, and he didn't have one. Or, worse, they had the wrong person pegged as the kiv'dah.

Dean left the boy's room and, on a whim, decided to poke around in his foster parents' bedroom. Maybe they had something of his in there that they were keeping from him? But no, his searching proved to be pointless.

He put his hand on Isabelle's bedroom doorknob, turned it, and the alarm on his watch beeped. Dammit. He was out of time. Dean abandoned his search and headed back downstairs. As he neared the front door, the sound of a motor caught his ears. Then it stopped. He froze in place and listened, but no sound of opening or closing car doors followed. He crept to the bank of front windows and peered around the edge of a curtain, through the blinds. A four wheeler was parked on the curb in front of the house, and Dean only just caught a glimpse of color from someone's shirt as they made their way up the front steps. He jerked back from the window and pressed himself to the wall, hoping whoever it was didn't have the same idea as he did and just let themselves inside.

After a moment, Dean eased back toward the window and looked out. Professor Megan Fischer was there, positioning a glazed, green flower pot at the top of the stairs. She smiled down at it as she stood upright, but suddenly, her body language changed. She seemed rigid, and her head slowly turned toward where Dean was hiding behind the curtain. Surely, there was no way she could see him behind the heavy fabric and blinds, but that didn't change the fact her sharp eyes were staring almost exactly at him.

Was she a psychic? No, she would have seen right through them when they went to her office if so. Not a psychic, then, but definitely a sensitive of some kind. Dean scarcely breathed until she turned away and headed back to the four wheeler. He waited until the sound of the motor rumbled away then checked out the window again to make sure he was alone on the street before letting himself back out onto the front porch. There, he let himself have a look at the small plant the professor had delivered. The seven-pointed leaves were a vibrant red with tinges of green. Dean pulled his cellphone from his pants pocket and snapped a picture. Then he quickly made his way to the meeting place he and Sam had agreed upon, a street over from where Sam had dropped him off.

"You're late," Sam commented as Dean slid into the car.

Dean only grunted in response.

"Did you find it?"

"Nope. The whole damn house was a dead end. I swear, it looks like it should be in a wholesome, family sitcom. Until I was leaving, there wasn't anything that was even remotely scandalous in the place."

"Until you were leaving?"

"The Bartons got a visitor; the reason I was late."

Sam glanced at Dean inquiringly.

"The local horticulturalist was dropping off one of her  _ plants _ ."

Sam's eyebrows raised at Dean's comment. "Wait, Professor Fischer is supplying the preacher with pot plants?" he asked as he passed the church. From the window, Dean could see Daniel standing at the open door of the church beside a man who was no doubt Father Barton. They were smiling and shaking hands with people as they streamed down the broad, white stairs and to their cars.

"Yeah, it was crazy-looking too, with red leaves and shit. Here, I got a picture of it." Dean got his phone back out of his pocket, but he had to wait for Sam to pull into the hotel parking lot and park the Impala before flicking open the image of the plant. He held it up for Sam, who smirked during his inspection of it. "Right? It didn't look like it had buds on it yet, but can you imagine once it does? That sorta thing'll put some hair on your chest."

Sam smirked bigger at that, and when his face started to split into a smile, he fought it and looked down at his lap.

"What?" Dean taunted. "Making you miss your college days?"

"Dean..." Sam lifted a face that was so blank, it must have been hurting him physically. Dean could still see the laughter dancing in his eyes. "That's, um," he cleared his throat. "That's not pot."

"Whatever, dude. It might not be something  _ I _ ever got into, but I know a pot plant when I see one."

Sam started grinning again. "You sure about that?"

Doubt finally started to creep over him. "...Mostly." He turned the phone to himself and examined the picture he had taken.

"Dude, that's a Japanese maple... It's a decorative and completely. Legal. Tree."

Dean was quiet for a moment, and when he looked at Sam again, whatever showed on his face made his brother lose his composure and laugh aloud. That did it; Dean got out of the car.

"What the hell would the preacher want with a maple tree anyway?" he groused.

"You said it yourself, Dean," Sam replied as he also climbed out of his seat. "Sort of. They're crazy-looking, but they're beautiful. Ornamental trees like that are expensive, and since keeping money in a small community like this is important, Barton probably made it a point to have someone local to raise one for him."

"Someone who also raises pot plants."

Sam laughed again. "Aww, did you want to smoke the Japanese maple, Dean?"

It was a disgruntled Dean and a far too amused Sam who let themselves into the hotel room. Though as Dean's eyes fell on the bed where he and Cas had spent hours with each other the night before -and into the morning- his mood lifted enough that he didn't even mind Sam's continued snickering interspersed with snarky-sounding comments in Japanese. The big jerk must've learned from Bobby when Dean wasn't looking. Where ever he picked it up, it didn't matter; Dean still wasn't going to ask what  _ kebukai mune  _ meant.

Dean sank onto the foot of his bed, and the uplifted mood only lasted so long. "So we need to drop back and punt."

"Yeah," Sam reverted back to English and leaned against the frame that separated the kitchenette and door from the rest of the room. He crossed his arms, dropped the teasing tone, and settled on looking thoughtful. They were both quiet for a long time, mulling in their own thoughts. There had to be a way to stop this thing, even if they couldn't find the spontoon that's supposed to kill him.

Maybe it doesn't have to be a spontoon, Dean reasoned to himself. Sam didn't say it was the blade itself, not the type of metal or even the shape. It was the spellwork on the blade that was supposed to be what worked to kill a kiv'dah.

"Hey," Dean broke the silence, and by the look on Sam's face, Dean had broken him out of his own deep thoughts. "What if we inscribed the spellwork that's on a spontoon onto a different blade?"

"That might work," Sam allowed, but he held up a hand at Dean's encouraged expression. "Except I don't know what parts of that fanciful scrollwork are decoration and what parts are the spell. I don't know how closely you looked at that picture, Dean, but the designs were tiny and extremely elaborate."

Dean frowned. "So what you're saying is it'd take forever to copy it exactly."

"Pretty much, yeah."

With a groan, Dean flopped back onto the bed. It had to be his imagination that it was still warm from his and Cas's bodies. He ran a hand down his face as though it could wipe away that thought. Thinking about Cas when it had just been visits to his dreams had been distracting enough. Now that they had actually  _ done things _ , the thought of the angel sidetracked him even more. He had to keep his head in the game; this case wasn't going to solve itself.

"You look like you didn't get much sleep." Sam's voice cut through his introspection. Dean looked at him. "Why don't you rest a bit, and I'll get out of here for a while?"

Sam wasn't wrong; Dean hadn't gotten a lot of sleep.  _ Worth it.  _ But what hours of rest he had managed that night were amazingly recuperative. Dean knew why, too, and he only just managed to keep a pleased smile from blooming across his face at the thought of it. "Nah, I'll be alright."

Sam, however, had already scooped the keys off the table and was moving toward the door. "I insist. Take a load off for a bit." He opened the door to leave and startled back from the opening.

Dean, who had been watching his brother walk away, was on sudden alert. He rolled from the bed to a kneeling crouch, jerking his gun from the back of his waistband and holding it at the ready in one smooth motion. In this position, he saw around Sam's body at who stood in the doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cue three note musical sting*
> 
> Also: "kebukai mune" means "hairy chest."


	21. Chapter 21

A shocked Megan Fischer stood just outside, her hazel eyes wide, and her hand still poised in a fist, lifted to knock on the door that had suddenly been opened before she could. Of the three of them, Sam recovered first.

"Professor." Or maybe, by the surprise in his voice, he hadn't recovered yet.

She slowly lowered her hand the same time Dean wrapped his arms behind his back to tuck the gun into its place in his waistband. He hoped she hadn't noticed, but he saw how her sharp eyes appraised him as he unfolded himself to stand. Something about her told Dean that she missed nothing about what had taken place. To her credit, she didn't inquire.

"To what do we owe this visit?" Dean asked, trying to sound polite, but knowing it came off as snappish.

"You're reasonably smart men; surely you don't wanna have this conversation in the doorway," she replied.

Sam glanced over his shoulder, waiting for the subtle nod of Dean's approval, before stepping back to grant her entrance to the room. He closed the door and offered a seat at the table in the kitchenette, which Megan graciously accepted. Sam took the other chair across from her while Dean stayed where he was, further in the room. He crossed his arms and waited. After she took a few moments to look both of them over, she finally spoke, and there was no preamble.

"You're lookin' for somethin'."

Sam and Dean shared a glance, one they both knew well. Let her do the talking, it said. Megan started picking at a fingernail like she had when she got nervous during their first interview. This time, it didn't seem like nerves. More like it was a subconscious habit when she was trying to think.

"Well? Ain't ya'll gonna answer me?"

"Maybe we will when you ask a question," Dean replied, gruffly.

She favored him with a rueful smile and stopped with her nail-picking. "Fair enough. Let me try it this way. You figured out that I don't have whatever you're lookin' for, so you went creepin' through Susan Barton's house."

They didn't even need to look at each other for both brothers to stay silent at that. She still hadn't asked anything, and she certainly wasn't going to get any information from them with statements like these.

"So you want a question, my question is this: what were you hoping to find there?" Though Sam sat closer, she continued directing her comments toward Dean.

"What makes you think I was at anyone's house?" he countered. Mentally, he was kicking himself. All previous thoughts of her possibly being a sensitive were thrown out the window. She had seen him through the blinds and curtains. That was the only way she could possibly know. Right?

"Tell me you weren't on the other side of that wall. Make me believe it, and I'll walk out of this room right now."

Before Dean could answer, the buzz of Sam's cell phone filled the air. Sam hopped up from his seat, pulling his phone from his pocket. He looked at the face. "It's Clemment," he informed Dean. His thumb slipped across the glass, and he pressed it to his ear, stepping further into the room and past Dean. "Hello?"

Dean moved to the table and lowered himself into the vacated chair to face Megan while Sam had his call. "You didn't see me in that house," he stated.

"No."

"You didn't see me go in; you didn't see me leave."

"No."

He gestured over the tabletop as though giving her permission to keep talking.

"But you were there."

"And you know this...?" He left his question open-ended so she could fill in the blank.

"Look, I don't know how I know things. It's not like I'm psychic or nothin'. Just sometimes I get these... feelin's, you know? And when I know somethin', it always ends up bein' right. I can't see into the future. I just... know things." She looked pointedly at Dean. "And I  _ know _ you were there."

"So what do you want? A gold star? A pat on the back?"

Her eyes narrowed. "Susan is a friend of mine. I want to know why you were in her house while her family was at church. I also want to know why you was talkin' to me first. You ain't here 'cause'a my plants."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

She tapped the side of her head.

"Fine, then if you _ know _ so much," Dean put emphasis on the word just as she had. "You should  _ know _ why we're here and what we're looking for."

Megan sighed, but as she opened her mouth to respond, Sam interrupted by saying Dean's name. His phone was tucked away again, indicating the call was over. He gestured for Dean to move away from the table and join him further into the room. Dean obliged, and Sam pitched his voice low. "Another admittance into the hospital with migraine-like symptoms. Clemment is having them run through for an MRI right now, but he already looked. There's a, um," his eyes darted to Megan before he cleared his throat and lowered his voice even further. "A mark, but it's not on the lower back this time. It's further up, closer to the neck, like the kiv'dah was less concerned with preserving this one."

"Where was this patient this morning?"

"St. James Baptist Church."

Dean nodded. Of course. They were in the same building where Daniel had been. Though, aside from Megan and the few individuals who kept Martha Jo's open, Dean was unsure how many people in this town weren't at the church. He was mostly certain Daniel was the kiv'dah, but after failing to find a spontoon in his room, Dean had to keep his options open. He looked over at Megan where she sat at the table, making no attempt to disguise the fact she was watching -and even trying to listen to- them.

"Alright, Professor," he said, approaching the table once more. "I think it's time you leave. We have work to do."

"This is about Daniel." Her confident words stopped Dean short. He shared a glance with Sam whose eyes were wide with surprise. Of course, he had missed part of the conversation.

"She drinks, and she knows things," Dean told him by way of explanation.

Megan snorted. "Yeah, that's exactly what I told you," she said sarcastically.

"How do you know this is about Daniel?" Sam asked, taking himself back to the table to sit. Dean let his head fall back momentarily with a silent, internal groan and rolled his eyes heavily.

_ Way to play it to the chest, Sammy. _

"You showed up to town and came knockin' on my office door. You inquired about me and about my husband. Then he's-" she thumbed at Dean without looking at him. "-doin' God-knows-what at the Barton's house when nobody's home. There's only one common factor there: me and Art and Daniel are all new in town." She looked from Sam to Dean, probably to gauge his reaction. He kept his face blank, determined not to give her one.

"What do you know about Daniel?" Sam asked, pulling her attention back to him.

"What do two grown men want with a teenage boy?"

"Why are you questioning Federal Agents?" Dean cut in, moving closer.

The raised eyebrow and sassy pursed lips she directed at him were enough; she knew they weren't FBI. Dean fought not to fidget under her stare.

"We think he's hurting people, Professor," Sam replied. "It's possible that's why he doesn't stay with foster families for very long. In fact, I don't expect he'll be with the Bartons much longer."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because the newest patient who got checked in at the hospital today was Susan Barton."

"Newest patient? What--? The headaches! You think Daniel is responsible for the headaches."

Dean was both impressed and annoyed at how she was coming to correct conclusions with such certainty that she wasn't even asking. She was telling them.  _ Because she knows. _

"Professor, we have reason to believe your friend is in a worse state than any of the previous vic- um, patients. Please tell us. What do you know about Daniel?"

Megan was quiet for so long that Dean thought she was refusing to talk. Then she let out a deep sigh. "There's not a lot to know," she said finally. "I mean, not a lot I can tell you anyways. As you know, I ain't been here very long. Susan was one of the first people I met, and she's such a nice soul. Made me feel welcome right away. At first, I thought Daniel was her biological son, and it... bothered me. He's nothing like Susan or George."

"What do you mean?" Sam asked. "He seemed polite and respectful to me."

"He is," Megan replied, causing confusion on both brothers' faces. "I'm not talkin' about how he acts, though. 'Cause you're right. He's very courteous, he smiles a lot, he helps around the house and at the church. He's the epitome of the kind of kid the Bartons want to raise... But... I don't know. I don't  _ know. _ And it drives me insane sometimes 'cause I feel like I should  _ know. _ "

"So there's... what? Something off about him?"

"Am I the only one who notices?" She said earnestly. A somewhat wild light had come into her hazel eyes as they darted back and forth between the brothers. "Even when he's politely saying 'yes ma'am' to me, the kid gives off some strange vibe that makes me want to stay at least an arm's length away from him."   
_ Far enough away that he wouldn't be able to feed off of her, _ Dean thought. Out loud, he said, "I think you may know more than you realize."


	22. Chapter 22

It didn't take long to fill Megan Fischer in on everything they were doing. Sam had given her "the talk" about monsters, hunting, and their current situation. At first, Sam could tell by Dean's body language that he had seemed reluctant, but the longer Sam spoke, the more his brother, thankfully, relaxed. After finding out that the professor _knows things_ , it made sense to Sam to recruit her into their efforts. An ally was seldom a bad idea, particularly one who had special abilities. Not surprisingly, after learning of the existence of vampires, werewolves, shifters, wendigos, kiv'dah, and more, she honed in on what she was also learning about herself.

"So I'm..."

"A sensitive," Sam told her.

"But not a psychic." She sounded very self-assured in her statement.

Sam hesitated, not wanting to break her confidence. "...Kind of? Technically, it's along the same lines, but where you read people, true psychics see things. Things that have happened, things that are going to happen. It's really not that uncommon." At her skeptical look, he amended, "At least, not if you operate in the same sorts of circles we do."

"Some of our nearest and dearest are psychics of some flavor or another," Dean put in. He had moved into the kitchenette with them and was leaning against the edge of the sink, the heels of his palms braced on either side of his hips.

"So, what, do you boys collect pet psychics or something?" The question was asked with a slight smirk, and Sam could tell she was already getting used to the idea. He was glad she was so open.

"Something like that," Dean answered with his own half smile.

"Professor..."

"Megan."

"Megan," Sam amended with a tilt of his chin. "Do you know, or do you have any theories on why Daniel would feed off of his foster mother at all, let alone why he would do so in such a way that he'd potentially kill her?"

Megan propped her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers in front of her face, tapping the pads of her fingertips lightly together. Sam stayed quiet, giving her time to think. Eventually, she said, "Susan told me Daniel's file is sealed. They don't know what his past looks like, only that he's been through quite a few different homes."

"Word on the street says seven," Dean offered.

Megan psshed. "Town gossip, I'm sure. The word 'several' prolly got turned into 'seven.' Nobody knows exactly how many 'cept Daniel himself, and he don't talk about past homes. Susan has tried to get him to open up to her." She cocked her head in consideration. "Who'd you hear that from, anyway?"

"Aunt Fanny."

"Oh. Well, I suppose Daniel could have told her himself since he's there so much," she said with a shrug. "But what I was gettin' at is that not only do we not know how many families, we don't know _why_ so many families. My best guess is that Daniel decided it was time to move on and did somethin' to his foster parents. Like what he did to Susan." Her voice wavered with her last sentence. She had already decided to not rush to the hospital to be at her friend's side. She kept the reasons to herself, but Sam could see the struggle over her choice painted across her face.

"But where did that decision come from, I wonder?" Dean murmured. "I mean, being a preacher's kid -even a foster kid- can't be all bad, right? You said the Bartons are good people. Why's he gotta decide to just dip like this? Christian homeschool can't be that bad."

"Actually..." Sam said it softly and immediately hoped neither of the others heard him. No such luck.

"Actually what?" Dean asked. "We weren't homeschooled, Christian or otherwise. What would you know about it?"

Sam looked up at him with what he hoped conveyed how dense he thought his brother was. "Isabelle?"

"Oh. Right."

"You know Susan's daughter?" Megan inquired.

"In the Biblical sense. Right, Sammy?" Dean said with a chuckle.

Sam felt his eyes flash. "Dude. Be respectful once in a while, would you?" To Megan, he modified his tone. "Yes. She and I had a date last night."

"You sure do work fast." Apparently, she was on the same amusement level as Dean. Great. Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, a little uncomfortable at the direction of the conversation and uncertain how to redirect it. This wasn't his to tell; he was certain Isabelle wouldn't thank him for broadcasting to everyone they had had sex after only one date, particularly since he was an out-of-towner who was just passing through. Much as he enjoyed himself -both during the date itself and afterward at Isabelle's house- he wasn't going to be a fixture in her life.

Judging by the softening of Megan's expression, she either _knew_ how he was feeling or was just a compassionate person. She took pity on him and went back to a previous statement. "So Isabelle told you what it was like to be a homeschooled preacher's daughter?" she prompted.

"Not the homeschool part, no," Sam replied, thanking her with his eyes. "But she didn't seem to be a big fan of the preacher's daughter part."

"What do you mean?" Dean asked, his humor leaking away as they got back to business.

"The church wasn't a special place for her," Sam explained. "She wasn't remotely interested in religion, and for some reason, her parents felt betrayed by it. After she moved out, they started fostering kids. According to Isabelle, they're trying to make up for how they think they failed with her."

"They have 'Jesus Loves You' painted on Daniel's bedroom wall," Dean supplied with a knowing nod.

"If he's tired of his current lot in life, he don't show it." As Megan joined the conversation again, she pushed her chair back from the table and got to her feet. "But no matter why he chose to... to feed-" she shuddered "-off o' Susan, the fact remains he's gotta to be stopped 'fore he gets someone else."

"Which is why we're here," Sam said, hopefully sounding reassuring.

Megan nodded. "I can't sit here anymore. I gotta go see Susan." She held a hand up at Sam's sudden widening of his eyes. "Don't worry; I ain't gonna tell her about all o' this. Like I said, I never really liked the boy, and if you're gonna get him away from the people of this town, I won't stop you." She moved closer to the door and looked at Dean. "But whatever it is you plan to do to 'im, I don't wanna hear it."

"Me?"

"You're protective of him," she said, nodding her head toward Sam. "There's something more ya'll didn't tell me, but whatever it is, it has _you_  nearly foamin' at the mouth to end this."

Oh right; they had neglected to tell her Sam had been a victim and then healed by an angel.

"I've been keeping Daniel at least an arm's length away," Megan continued, still talking to Dean. "Whatever you're planning, I suggest you do the same. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a friend to visit." She nodded to Sam and let herself out of the room.

The brothers waited a moment, then Dean spoke. "You think she knows this kid pretty much has a death sentence on his head?"

Sam sighed, "Y'know, I was really hoping we'd come up with a better solution than killing him, but now..."

"Now what, Sam? He's sucking brain juice out of people. He's a monster; we gank monsters."

"But he's not killing people."

"Um, does Mrs. Agnes Praxy ring a bell?"

"That was an accident," Sam argued.

"What about Susan Barton? He got her right here." Dean emphasized his point by stepping forward and jabbing the tip of his finger at the base of Sam's neck. Sam jumped out of the chair to his feet and squirmed away to bat at Dean's hand.

"Okay, okay!"

"And, like it or not," Dean continued, "when he got up behind you and stuck his proboscis in you, he made it personal."

"Ugh; God, Dean. Why do you have to say it like that?"

With a snicker, Dean's smug, amused expression dropped to the tabletop, and just by watching it melt into something softer, it was suddenly apparent to Sam that his older brother's teasing comment made him think of something other than taunting Sam. Cas; Dean was most assuredly thinking about Cas. It made him feel a little dirty that the idea of Sam having someone behind him and sticking something in made his brother think of his... boyfriend? Is that what they were?

Dirty feeling gone, two questions suddenly popped into Sam's head: Should he say something? Should he not? The pair of thoughts tore at each other in his brain until he couldn't keep it back anymore. The question tumbled from his mouth before he considered whether it would be a good idea to ask.

"How long have you and Cas been...?" He cut off as Dean tensed at Cas's name, his face blanked, and he s-l-o-w-l-y raised his eyes from the table to him. Sam swallowed and plowed ahead. "It's okay, Dean, really. I've been expecting it for, well, a really long time, actually." Dean stayed quiet, but a shadow crossed his face. Oh. Maybe Sam's attempt at assurance wasn't smart. Without a word, Dean snatched up the Impala keys and left the room, closing the door somewhat more firmly than necessary. A moment later, Sam heard the squawk of the car door opening, a slam, and then engine roar to life. The gradual fade of the sound gave tell to Dean driving away.  
_Well, shit_.


	23. Chapter 23

Sam knew. _Sam knew!!_ Dean gripped the steering wheel tightly, not paying any attention to where he was going until, in a blink, he was about to head out of the western part of the speck of a town. He turned right and decided to simply zig zag the town at negative three miles per hour or whatever ridiculously low speed they had posted around here. Just like he and Sam had done when they first arrived. Dammit, how did Sam find out?

 _Simple, idiot. He saw you._ Dean didn't want to believe it, though. Because that meant Cas had poofed after Sam walked in but before Dean woke up. That, he realized, more than anything, was what upset him. So what if Sam knew? Sam could know. The whole world could know. Cas was his.

Those three words warmed him to his toes, and it occurred to him that he had felt this way long before he had actually claimed the angel with his body. Just as quickly, though, doubts started worming their way into his mind.

Sam saw them together, and then Cas left without even alerting Dean to his departure. Cas had to have known Sam saw them. Was he ashamed of Dean? His heart contracted at the thought, but he couldn't shake it away. It would be just his luck. Dean Winchester never got anything good in his life without it being ripped away again. That's just the way things worked for him. Always had, always would. He figured the best he could take away from last night were good -some damn good- memories, but he had to distance himself from whatever misguided feelings that were trying to surface.

He found himself nearing the alley behind Town & Country Market that doubled as a parking lot for the farmer's market connected to it. A glance out the car window showed him it was abandoned. Dean recalled seeing the sign on the front door that stated the store was closed on Sundays. On a whim, he turned onto the gravel and dirt. It was as good a place as any to be alone with his thoughts for a few minutes, and driving within the speed limit of this place was making his foot cramp for want of slamming it down onto the accelerator.

He parked by the back door of the Market, killed the engine, and let his head drop back heavily on the headrest. All he had to do was pray. Pray, call Cas down, and confront him about it. Dean closed his eyes... but he couldn't do it. He wasn't ready to hear the rejection -one that already rattled in his head- out loud from Cas's mouth. His eyes opened again, and he rolled his head sideways, letting his gaze fall on the peeling, white paint on the door beside the car.

Desperately clawing at any thought that didn't include Cas, Dean made himself think of his first trip into that store. He thought of the boy who looked like Sam. The boy who was sucking the spinal fluid out of his neighbors. He thought of how diligently he stocked the sodas and gathered the pallets when he was done.

 

_"Okay, honey, you enjoy your break."_

_He carried the pallets to the grey door the woman had used, pushed it open with his shoulder, and disappeared to the other side._

 

Dean had gone through that very door, and the back room was actually pretty small. There had been a one room bathroom for employees to share and shelves stocked neatly with excess boxes of products. There wasn't a break room. Nowhere for Daniel to have gone. And he hadn't been out in the produce market when Dean stepped out and joined Sam.

Head buzzing with a sudden rush of adrenaline, Dean got of out the car. Habit kept a lockpick set snugged in his pocket alongside his wallet. He withdrew it and looked around quickly to make sure no one had arrived while his gears had been turning. Still alone. It was a gentle slide into the keyhole, bump-bump-bump; _oh, an easy one._ He pressed the lockpins in place one by one and _click._ The lock released, and the knob turned. Dean let himself inside the building and closed the door behind him.

Dean hadn't carried his flashlight with him, but bless Aunt Fanny, she had night lights plugged into three outlets in the room. Dean wouldn't have to turn on an overhead or stumble around in the dark. He cast his gaze across the room, taking in the open bathroom door and the shelves, stocked just as they had been the last time he walked through. There was a pile of empty pallets pushed off to one side; an industrial mop bucket -the yellow kind with wheels- with a mop handle sticking out of it and a wet floor sign, all under a cabinet without doors that was filled with cleaning supplies. A ladder was positioned in the very back. Dean took notice that it was open and set up next to a shelf instead of folded closed and set neatly against the wall like everything else was. He walked closer to it. There were more shelves along the wall beyond it, but the ladder was blocking easy access to the overstock on them.

Dean mounted the ladder and climbed. When he reached the ceiling, he splayed his hands across the square of drop ceiling and pressed with his fingertips, lifting it out of the grid. He tried to slide it to one side, but it hit something. He lifted it higher, higher than he should have needed to before he was able to displace it. Then he climbed to the top of the ladder, which put his head to the area above him.

Sunlight slanted through the slots of an air vent on one end, giving him slightly more visibility than in the room below. The space was smaller than the stock room under him. The whole floor except for the piece of drop ceiling he had moved was covered in old, hardwood floor, like it had existed long before the ceiling below had been put in. The space around him looked like it may have once been a staircase, but the stairs were long gone. A squat, threadbare beanbag sat beside a coarse, wooden bookshelf that looked to have been built in place. There were no other furnishings in the room. Dean pressed his hands to the wooden floor and hefted himself off of the ladder and up into the space. Heavy beams overhead almost made him miss the bare lightbulb snugged between two of them, but the pullstring hanging down called his attention to it. He gave it a yank, and a flood of white light made him wince against the sudden onslaught.

Dean crossed the floor to the bookshelf as though in a trance. On one shelf was what looked like every Michael Crichton book ever published. Another had selections that ranged from "The Complete Works of Edgar Allan Poe" to more copies of "Busty Asian Beauties." But then, there it was. Like it had been put in a place of honor on a shelf by itself. Sitting on a black cloth trimmed in silver was an intricately engraved spontoon head. If there had ever been a shaft, it was long gone, either broken or rotted away, but there was enough metal sticking down from the head to give him a handhold like it was a knife handle.

As he reached for it, a scuffing sound turned him around. "Sam," he said. But no, the moment the name left his tongue, he realized he was wrong. The frame was too thin, not bulked enough. The hair was too short, the face too young. "Daniel," he corrected himself.

The boy shuffled a hand behind his back, hiding something he was holding. He looked a little uncertain as he moved further into the small room. "What are you doing up here?"

Dean had a flash of an instant to decide whether he would lie or confront Daniel. He chose neither. For now. "Whatcha got back there?" He pointed to the elbow sticking akimbo from Daniel's side. A flush ran up Daniel's cheeks, and his eyes darted to the shelf behind Dean. By his estimation, Dean thought he was looking at the magazines. "Hiding something you're not supposed to have?" he guessed.

Daniel reluctantly revealed what he held, and Dean had been right. It was the trio of "Busty Asian Beauties" that had been hiding under the mattress at the Barton house.

"I think Father Barton found them," Daniel said sheepishly while Dean smirked, and he stepped closer to hold the crumpled magazines under the light. "They weren't exactly where I left them. So I wanted to stash them here." Daniel continued across the room to stand next to Dean at the bookshelf. Dean turned with him and watched him reach forward to set the magazines with the rest on the shelf. Sudden alarm bells rang out in Dean's head. Daniel was well within arms-reach.

Dean whirled away from Daniel, throwing his arm down, and the block hit Daniel's left arm that had been positioned out behind Dean. From the bend of his elbow extended a long, slender, snake-thing. It was raw and pulsing, like it had been flayed of skin, and the end of it was tipped, needle-like. Eyes wide at having been caught, Daniel jerked back, and the appendage wiggled back into his skin like it had never been. It was a little nauseating, really.

"I'm so sorry, but now that you've seen this, I can't let you leave," Daniel told him. It helped Dean concentrate past the sick feeling he had gotten seeing the... thing slurp into Daniel's arm.

"I'm sorry, but you must think I'm someone you can snack on," Dean retorted.

"You mistake me." A dangerous smile crossed Daniel's face, and the sight of it slammed into Dean's gut. He remembered seeing that look from Sam for the first time. The loss of innocence. The knowledge that his little brother would never be the college boy lawyer he had aspired to be. "I don't plan on making you a snack. You will be my first full meal since I've been here." He stalked closer, and Dean rounded the edge of the room, trying to give himself space to fight.

"Your foster mom wasn't enough of a meal for you?" Dean grated.

"You don't understand. These 'snacks' as you call them aren't fulfilling. I'm so hungry; I'm hungry all the time." Daniel grabbed at his hair in frustration, losing focus for a moment. Dean used it to change directions and start working his way back to the bookshelf. Daniel looked up again and adjusted his direction to follow where Dean was moving, unaware of the shift. "Susan is always there, right next to me. Patting my shoulder, hugging me. And smelling so good, so... tasty. I couldn't fight it any longer. I needed to feed."

"Well you ain't feeding on me." Dean had to turn to snatch up the spontoon head. It was an unfortunate necessity that exposed his back to let Daniel rush him. As expected, the boy crashed into him heavily, slamming both of them into the bookshelf. It rocked against the wall, spilling books and magazines to the floor. Dean felt Daniel's forearm brace against his upper back and shoulders, trying to pin him in place, but Dean's fingers wrapped around the hilt of the spontoon head, and he used both hands to push back off of the shelf. Though Daniel was taller, Dean was larger and stronger, and he easily moved Daniel with his shove so he could whip around to face him, slashing as he turned. Daniel curved his body in and jumped back, narrowly avoiding the attack, and he backed away as far as the room would let him. Dean watched dark green eyes dance between blade and Dean's face, and the building fear he saw made his heart clench. God, how many times had he seen that look on Sammy's face? On a the face that looked just like this one? In that moment, Dean didn't want to do it. He was facing down a kid -a kid! Maybe the only reason he was hesitating was because Daniel looked so much like Sam, but in that moment, it felt like reason enough. He couldn't do it. His hand lowered to his side.

A flash of determination brightened Daniel's eyes when he saw the blade go down, and he threw himself at Dean with renewed vigor. With the sudden attack incoming, Dean's self preservation kicked in, and he twirled the spontoon in his hand, switching from a slashing to a stabbing grip, but then Daniel was on him, knocking his arm wide and gripping his wrists as his momentum carried both of them to the floor.

With no arms to catch his fall, Dean landed flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him, an instant before the back of his head bounced off the wood with a thud. Jittering white stars bloomed in a world of black, his lungs burned as he gasped for air, and only years of training kept his fingers wound tightly around the hilt of the spontoon while he blinked furiously, shook his head, and fought to regain both his vision and breath.

Sam loomed over him, triumph radiating from his pleased smile. No, not Sam. Dean blinked again as a pair of slimy, nasty, skinless snakes slithered into view. He cut his eyes down to see where they eased out of the bend of Daniel's arm. Blink, blink. His eyes focused, and the two snakes merged into one as his vision cleared.

"I have to thank you for invading my hideaway," Daniel gloated. "There's no telling how much longer it would have been until I got a good, full meal." The proboscis tip slithered out of view, toward Dean's neck. Gathering his scattered strength, Dean heaved one hip and threw his body sideways, tossing Daniel, and rolling with him. Pain exploded in his head as he did, blanketing his eyesight once more. Blindly, he stabbed down into the center mass of the boy, earning a gurgled cry and flailing arms. He blinked through the darkness until he could see. Blood poured from Daniel's mouth; Dean had punctured a lung. He yanked the blade out and stabbed down again, this time aiming for the heart. The scrollwork etched into the side of the blade lit up in an odd, green-ish yellow glow, and Daniel's fighting stopped, his breath leaving his body in a wet, bubbling sigh. Both arms and that one nasty, skinless, arm straw slumped lifelessly to the wooden floor.

Dean looked at the open, staring eyes that had already glazed over. He used one hand to close them, and he just sat there for a minute, examining the soft face of the boy he had just killed. His heart was beating too hard, and his head was throbbing where it had smacked the floor. Both details were inconsequential as he looked down at the young, Sam look-alike. He didn't even notice the single tear that spilled down his cheek.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♪♫"A single man tear, a single man tear, a single man tear, that's all we fear."♪♫


	24. Chapter 24

Dean had been gone for hours, and the sun had already set when Sam finally got a response to his many texts.

 

_ D: Took care of the kiv'dah. Done cleaning up. Back in 20. _

 

Sam knew better than to ask questions. Dean would never answer them over text. That didn't stop him from wondering why the hell his brother had walked out like he had and gone straight to finishing this case without even calling him in to help. Well, okay, he had a good idea of why Dean had walked out. He obviously wasn't comfortable with Sam's knowledge of his relationship with Cas. Sam knew now that he shouldn't have said anything, and he wasn't going to be the one to bring it up next time. Dean would say something when he was ready.

But why did Dean have to leave him out of the case? He was the one who got them started on it to begin with. Now, not only did Dean find the spontoon -he must have, if he had taken care of the kiv'dah like he said- but he hunted it down without calling Sam first. He didn't care how mad Dean was about the Cas situation; it was petty and childish to do this alone.

Sam turned his phone over and over in his hand, thinking. Dean was on his way back to the hotel. The kiv'dah was dead. That meant one thing: they would be heading out first thing in the morning. He opened a new message and started typing.

 

_ S: Looks like I'm hitting the road tomorrow. I know it's last minute, but I'd really like to see you again before I go. Meet me tonight? _

_ I: Where Road 746 meets SR23. _

Sam furrowed his brow and checked his GPS. After a moment, he found where she meant.

_ S: There's nothing there. _

_ I: Yes there is. _

_ S: ??? _

_ I: You'll see. One hour. _

_ S: See you then. _

 

With twenty minutes until Dean got back, Sam took the opportunity for a shower. He turned the water on, and as it warmed enough to step under it, he pulled his hair up into a folded over ponytail to keep it from getting wet, something he would  _ never _ do around Dean for fear he would never hear the end of it. He even made sure to keep his small stash of hair bands hidden from his brother. Dean could be pretty ruthless with his harassment of Sam's long hair.

While he soaped up, Sam's mind wandered to his date with Isabelle the night before. His mind's eye flashed upon the various ways they had fucked throughout the night. There was no other word for it. Very little of it had been slow or gentle or could be considered love-making in any way. It had been hot, primal, fucking. The memory was making him hard, and he cupped his crotch, smoothing soap suds all along his length.  _ Not yet, _ he schooled himself. He finished washing and rinsing without giving himself any release. By the time Dean walked in, Sam was fully dressed, his hair and teeth were brushed, and his hair band was secreted away in his hygiene bag.

Dean eyed him as he closed the door and tossed the keys and his wallet on the table. "Goin' somewhere?"

"Actually, yes. We're leaving tomorrow, aren't we?"

"Yup." Dean walked to his bed, shedding his outer layers to the floor as he went, leaving just his black t-shirt and jeans. Sam couldn't help but notice he looked unsteady.

"Hey, you okay?" Sam followed him and sat down on his own bed while Dean flopped back on his.

"Let's just say none of the kiv'dah's moms ever taught him not to play with his food."

"What the hell happened, Dean?"

"I might've bounced my head off the floor a little bit."

"A little bit?!" Alarmed, Sam jumped up and leaned over Dean to check his eyes. Dean jerked his face out of Sam's hands and swatted him away.

"Back off, man; I'm fine."

"Dean, you could have a concussion. Why didn't you call me? I could have helped you."

"I said I'm fine. I burned the body and buried what was left out in a corn field, and then I drove myself back. No big deal. Now let me sleep."

"It is a big deal. You shouldn't sleep if you have a concussion. Or at the very least, you need someone here to wake you every hour. It's cool, man, I'll cancel my plans." He only barely had his fingers on the phone in his pocket when Dean reached out to grab his arm.

"Don't you dare," he commanded. They locked eyes in a stubborn staring contest. Dean blinked first, and it was a long, disoriented blink that left his gaze unfocused. Sam watched as he fought through it.

"Dean, you need somebody here," Sam said gently, removing Dean's hand from his arm.

"I'll... I'll call on Cas."

That was acceptable. The angel could do a step better than waking Dean every hour; he'd be able to heal him. And, judging by how Sam had last seen them together, the healing would likely turn into an evening Dean would enjoy as much as Sam hoped to enjoy his own night. He nodded. "Okay."

Dean wiggled his way up the bed, taking a moment to pull his gun out of his waistband to tuck it under his pillow. Sam favored his big brother with a thin smile. Even with a head wound, old habits die hard. He stood by for a minute, and it was apparent Dean was just going to sleep and had no intentions of calling Cas to come help. Shaking his head, Sam scooped the keys off the table, turned off the overhead, leaving the lamp between the beds on, and let himself out of the hotel room. There, in the orange glow of the streetlamp, Sam prayed quietly.

"Cas, I know it seems like we only pray to you when we need something. And maybe we shouldn't keep asking for help like this... but Dean is hurt. He needs-" before the next sentence was out of his mouth, Sam was face to face with Cas. His worry over Dean washed away to be replaced with amusement at how swiftly Cas had appeared. If that didn't hammer home how the angel felt about his brother, he didn't know what would. He also was acutely aware at the respectful amount of space Cas afforded him. He was always standing much closer to Dean, to the point Dean would demand he step back. Sam never had that issue. He smiled. "Thanks for coming."

"Of course, Sam," the graveled voice replied. "What's happened?"

Sam thumbed over his shoulder at the door. "Dean's laying down to rest, but he took a knock to the head. I'm thinking he might need someone to stay with him."

"You're leaving?"

"I uh," Sam rubbed at the back of his neck, suddenly a little ashamed that he had called on Cas rather than cancelling his plans, regardless of what Dean had said. Yet there had been something earnest in his brother's eyes when he insisted Sam go out. "Yeah, I have somewhere to be."

Cas nodded slowly. "Then I'll watch over Dean."

"Thanks, Cas." Sam clapped him on the trench-coated shoulder and moved past, taking himself to the Impala. As he got in, he watched Cas let himself into the hotel room and close the door behind him. An unwelcome mental image of the last time he had seen Cas flashed through his mind. It's not that nudity bothered him, really, but he certainly hadn't expected to see the angel's bare ass when he walked into his hotel room. A crooked smile split his face as he turned over the engine. "Have fun, kids," he murmured and pointed the car to the street.

It was only a five minute drive from the hotel to the spot Isabelle had selected for their meetup. Sam was going to be earlier than the hour she had given, but as he neared his destination, he realized Isabelle was already there. Her green truck was parked off the side of the road, and she was sitting sideways in the seat, the door open and the interior dome light shining behind her, showing she was back in her green cap and casual clothes. Sam was glad of it; he also hadn't made as much effort in dressing tonight as he had for their date. She grinned as Sam made the turn and stopped the car. He rolled down his window. "Excuse me, have you seen a beautiful girl around here? Kinda short, great skin, blonde hair, and the most amazing blue eyes you'd ever want to get lost in?"

Isabelle hopped out of the truck and approached his open window. She leaned down to fold her forearms across the door frame, bringing her face down to his. The glow of the dashboard illuminated her smile and gave her pale eyes a strange, orangey hue. "I dunno. Is she expecting you?"

"I sure hope so."

"Hmm, let me get my purse, and I'll help you find her." Isabelle winked and sauntered back to her truck. True to her word, she grabbed her purse along with two small, rectangular boxes before closing the door and rounding her way to get into the Impala. She put her purse in the floorboard, but when Sam tried to get a look at the boxes, she tucked them next to her leg, using her body to hide them from him. "Patience," she said with a smile. Then she pointed forward. "Keep driving along this road, but go slowly or you'll miss the turn. It's not marked." Sam did as directed, and only a couple minutes later, Isabelle pointed again. "Right turn. See it?"

"I see it." Sam made the turn onto a soft dirt road. Unmarked, just as Isabelle had said. He drove for a couple minutes. "Now where?"

"Now stop."

"Stop? Here?"

"You heard me."

"Did you bring me out here to murder me?" Sam asked as he put the car into park and killed the engine.

"Don't threaten me with a good time." Isabelle laughed and produced one of the boxes. Sam watched in the dim of what little light was offered from the sliver of crescent moon overhead. She opened it and slid the contents into her hand before offering it to Sam. It was a plastic to-go cup of red wine, complete with a screw on lid. She pulled another out of the second box and left both boxes on the floorboard next to her purse. As Sam put a hand on the top of his cup to unscrew the lid, Isabelle pressed a hand over his. He stopped and looked at her, barely able to see the details of her face in the darkness. "Get out of the car." She suited her own words by opening her door and slipping out. Sam followed her lead and got out too, watching her walk around the front of the car, trailing her fingertips across the sleek, black hood as she went.

They met in the middle, and after testing the heat of the hood with the back of her hand, Isabelle used the bumper for a boost and hopped up onto it. She grinned and patted the empty spot beside her. "C'mon up." Sam sidled in place with less effort and sat next to her. "Now you can open it," she said, twisting the lid off of her cup. She held it up as though to make a toast, but Sam already knew what he wanted to say.

"To height difference," he supplied, lifting his own opened cup.

Isabelle tilted her head quizzically. "What?"

"Without it, I never would have run into you."

Isabelle's plastic cup met Sam's with a dull  _ thip _ , and she kept her eyes on his as she sipped the wine. Sam tasted his as well.

"So, not to be a buzzkill or anything, but you said there was something out here," Sam said. Isabelle capped her wine -prompting Sam to do the same- and leaned back on her elbows.

"There is something," she replied. "Look." She gazed skyward, and Sam did the same. Spread across the inky ocean of sky, Sam saw what he could swear were every heavenly body in existence. They were like wispy clouds of dots, swirled with black and the deepest blue, twinkling and pulsing with a universal heartbeat.

"Woah," he sighed the word and leaned back onto his elbows too. The warmth of the car's hood beckoned him, though, and he let himself lay all the way back instead of staying propped up.

"There's no lights out here, and the moon is just a couple days past new," Isabelle whispered into the quiet. "It's a perfect night for this." She laid back next to Sam, and he felt her hand find his between them. He intertwined their fingers, and they stayed there in silence, watching the sky and the occasional shooting star. "By the way..."

"Hm?"

"Nice as this is, before this evening comes to an end, I will be requiring you to rail me out, right here, over the hood of this car."

Sam's full-bodied laughter echoed through the darkness. He lifted their interlaced fingers to his mouth, nipped lightly at the edge of her forefinger, and spoke with his lips touching her skin. "When you put it so eloquently, how can I resist?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ever wanted to be a fictional character? *raises hand*


	25. Chapter 25

Sam wasn't out the door for long before he came back in. Dean didn't even open his eyes to say, "I mean it, Sammy. Go. Get your freak on. I'll be fine."

"Hello, Dean."

Dean's eyes popped open, and even the dim light of the lamp seemed to sear into them after they had grown accustomed to the darkness behind his lids. He winced at the brightness as he lifted slightly off the pillow, but the throbbing in his head made him close his eyes again; stubbornly, he refused to lay back down. "Cas." He opened his eyes again, and his brain must not have been working because all he could come up with next was, "You're back." _I'll take 'Obvious Statements' for 500, Alex._

Cas rounded the divider between the kitchenette and the rest of the room, closing in on the bed where Dean was struggling to lift himself into a sitting position. Cas's hands found him before he was upright and tried to help him get his feet on the floor. Dean shrugged him off roughly, so the angel crouched in front of him, looking up at where Dean righted himself to sit on the edge of the bed.

"Sam, he... he told me you were injured."

Dean tried to play it off with a shrug. "He worries too much." But Cas didn't look convinced as he squinted his eyes to peer into Dean's.

"Your pupil. You are concussed," he stated and lifted his hand to Dean's forehead, leading with his first two fingers.

Dean backhanded Cas's attempt to touch him out of the way and turned his head, which earned him a dizzy spell. He fought like hell not to show it. He didn't want or need help from the guy who was ashamed of him, who left because Sam saw them together. He's always done this on his own, has soldiered through more concussions than he could count; he could keep doing it. "I'm fine."

"Dean, please." It was enough to make Dean look at him again. The expression on Cas's face matched the pleading voice. "Please let me help you."

"Why do you care?" Dean snapped, railing against whatever concern might be coming from Cas. It earned him a crestfallen angel who lifted from his crouch only enough to slide himself back to sit opposite Dean, on Sam's bed. It increased the distance between them, something Dean usually had to ask for -demand, really- before Cas would grant it.

"I... I thought..."

"You thought what, Cas? Huh? That you could just show up, take what you want from me, then disappear 'cause you don't want to deal with the aftermath?"

Cas's brow furrowed, but Dean wouldn't accept that it might be confusion. He plowed on, anger bubbling aggressively inside of him. It felt more familiar to him than whatever sappy, hearts-and-flowers bullshit had come over him the night before. He hugged it around himself as he snarled his words at Cas. "All those months. All that buildup. And when it all came to a head, you just couldn't fucking handle it, could you? The moment you thought someone would know your dirty secret -that you lusted after a mere human- you turned tail and ran."

"Dean, I-"

"What?" Dean cut in, his voice louder. It made his head pound, but at this point, he was mad enough to push it aside. "Tell me, Cas. 'Cause I _really_ want to know. Tell me what is so reprehensible about me that you had to hide what we did -what we are- from Sam. Sam! Of all the people in this world, he's the one person who would give the least number of shits about this, and you poofed the moment you thought he knew about us."

"That's not-"

"Oh, it's not? Then I guess you should tell me what it is, shoul-"

" **I'm trying to, you little shit.** "

Dean snapped his jaw shut, his eyes wide. Cas had never, _never_ spoken like that before, not to him or anyone, and it took him aback.

"Hold still." Cas demanded. He leaned across the empty space between them and touched Dean's forehead roughly. Dean didn't fight it this time; he was still too shocked. A shivery heat suffused him, and the throbbing in his head melted away. So, too, did the fatigue in his body he hadn't even realized was there until it was gone. "I could have left you in that state as a sort of punishment for running off at the mouth like that, but I want you clear-headed so you understand what I am about to say." He waited for a response; Dean could only nod silently at this point. "Good." He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "Dean, you don't embarrass me. You never have been and never will be a 'dirty secret.' Time and time again, I have made my feelings and my choice known. I openly rebelled against the Heavenly Host to be by your side." He paused again, letting the weight of his words settle over Dean. "Quite frankly, Dean, I believe Sam -and truly, a good number of angels and demons both- have known about 'us' for longer than you have."

Dean felt as though he had been struck by a blue-eyed hammer. He didn't know what to say. No, that wasn't true. He did have one question. "Then why did you leave?" Was that tiny voice his? It couldn't have been.

"Dean... we've known each other for a long time, but it would appear I am still learning things about you. My decision to leave this morning had nothing to do with Sam. It was merely coincidence that he arrived before my departure. I simply assumed the next morning would be uncomfortable for you, that you would need time to gather your thoughts about what had transpired without being faced with it right away. I realize now I was wrong. You're right; I should have stayed."

Dean nodded as he considered Cas's words. While it was always a boost to his ego to hear someone else tell him he was right, Cas was also right. Probably. He didn't know how he would have acted if he had woken up naked next to an equally naked Cas. A big part of him wanted to say he would have been fine with it. More than fine, maybe even happy about it. He had, after all, been perfectly content with them holding each other through the night. But a niggling in the back of his head reminded him of what a... well... a little shit he could be when he felt anything less than 100% confident. And maybe waking up with Cas against him would have made him feel awkward. He didn't know. But looking across the small space between the beds at the angel, he decided right then that he wanted to find out.

He lifted off of his own bed very suddenly and crashed into Cas, pushing him back onto Sam's bed and riding him down. Dean propped against the mattress on straight arms, holding himself over Cas in a pushup position to gaze down at him. Both of them had their legs hanging off the side, Cas's knees wide and bent with Dean's straight legs fitted between them. It made for an uncomfortable arrangement, but Dean didn't care. Staring at Cas's face this closely, with their lower bodies pressed together, Dean felt his face soften into a smile. He lowered himself slowly and took Cas's lips against his gently. The kiss deepened as Cas relaxed against him, and it gave Dean a different dizzy sensation than that of the now-healed concussion. This one gave him a slight buzzing in all corners of his brain, and it tingled all the way down his body.

With a shuddering breath, Dean broke the kiss and pressed up far enough to see Cas's face clearly. "Can I...? Can I see your wings again?" he asked quietly.

Cas didn't say a word. A shadow crept out from under him and rolled across the bedspread in both directions. One angled sharply up the headboard and the wall, the other disappeared off the edge of the bed. Dean couldn't hold back a sarcastic smile. "Really, smartass? I mean your _wings._ Your actual, physical, reach-out-and-touch-them, feathered wings."

Cas tilted his head as the shadow vanished. "Not right now, no."

A jolt of uneasiness hit Dean's gut.  Cas was still going to make him wait?  "Why not?" he asked, haltingly.

"Because I am clothed, and I am laying on my back. Neither are conducive to displaying my plumage."

Dean chuckled, "No, I guess not." He lifted off of Cas and stood up to offer a hand. Cas took it and let himself be hefted to his feet. The space between the beds was tight; it didn't offer room for two grown bodies to share it unless they were very good friends... or more. With their bodies only a hard thought away from touching, Dean wanted more.

Without looking away from the drowning blue eyes, he slid his hands within the layers of Cas's clothes and pushed the trench coat and sport jacket off of his shoulders and to the floor. He let himself glance down to unknot Cas's tie, but he didn't need to look as his fingers worked down the long row of buttons on the front of his shirt. As each button fell open, Dean's fingertips graced the revealed skin before moving to the next one, but he kept his eyes glued to Cas's. The closeness of their bodies made the act more intimate than it perhaps would have been had they been able to step back a little. When the last button fell from its hole, Dean ran his hands up Cas's abs, over his pecs, and rounded his shoulders. He used the same motion as he had for the coats to remove the shirt, letting it drop from Cas's wrists to join the rest of the discarded clothes. He trailed over Cas's body again, reveling in the heat of his skin.

When he cupped Cas's hipbones above the dark waistband of his slacks, Dean turned their bodies and pressed at Cas, guiding him to step backwards, out of the narrow space between the beds. When Cas had moved far enough, Dean stopped pushing, but he kept his hands where they were. His arms were stretched out now, giving him a better view of the skin he had exposed. He couldn't help but run his tongue over his bottom lip and draw it in between his teeth at the sight, but ultimately, his gaze returned to Cas's face.

"Let me see them again," he said. And then in a whisper, "Please."

Cas slid his hands over Dean's then up to grip his wrists, holding both of them in place. Dean could feel his pulse speed under Cas's fingertips. Cas closed his eyes and tilted his head back. In that moment, his huge, black wings unfurled from behind him. Dean stared; how could he not? The wings lifted and stretched out, filling the room, tips damn near touching opposite walls before relaxing down again. It wasn't until Cas's grip tightened on his wrist that Dean realized he was trying to reach up to touch one. Cas opened his eyes again.

"Why won't you let me touch them?" Dean was not whining. He wasn't. It took him a moment to see the sparkle of amusement in Cas's gaze.

"Perhaps because you want it so badly," he replied with a small curve of a smile tugging at his lips. "Perhaps because delayed gratification will increase the pleasure." Something about the way he said that made Dean's cock respond. It shifted against the front of his jeans as Cas lifted their hands from his hips and pulled Dean against his bare chest. Cas's lips were against the rough stubble on his jaw. "And if there is one thing I do know about you, Dean," he worked his lips closer to Dean's ear, pushing harder against his body, "is that you enjoy pleasure. Don't you?" His thigh pressed tightly between Dean's legs with the question, and Dean's eyes fluttered shut as a moan trickled from his throat. His hips rotated forward of their own accord, using the friction to stimulate an increasingly hard cock, but before he could lose himself in it, Cas eased back again, the fucking tease. Dean opened his eyes again to the sensation of his hands being placed on Cas's shoulders and released. Cas found Dean's hips and held him just as surely as his gaze held Dean's eyes. "You may touch them now."

The tip of Dean's tongue wet his lips. He took Cas's face in his hands and kissed his angel by way of a pre emptive thank you. It was soft and decidedly chaste, but he knew if he made it anything more, he would be distracted again.

He had to duck under one wing to round himself behind Cas, but he wanted to see everything. Cas's back muscles were corded and tight under the weight of the wings. Dean ran fingertips up his spine, starting at his waistband and gently making his way to the edge in Cas's skin where the feathers began. The moment his fingers crossed that line, he saw goosebumps march across Cas's flesh. He leaned in to press his lips against the spread of skin between the wings and lifted his other hand to pet along both wings at once. Cas shuddered under his touch, enticing Dean further.

Dean kissed and licked his way up Cas's spine and nuzzled into his neck. "You're incredible," he whispered. Cas turned his head, and they lightly kissed again over his shoulder, Dean brushed down across the longer feathers, bringing a hum from Cas. He pressed tighter against Cas, fitting their bodies together. He was careful not to pet the feathers backwards as he returned his hands to the top edges of Cas's wings to smooth along them again. Cas responded by arching against him. There was no way he didn't feel how hard this was making Dean, seeing and feeling him react to his touch in this way. It made Dean wonder, and he satisfied his curiosity by snaking an arm down to reach around Cas and spread his fingers and palm across the front of his slacks. What he found encouraged him. He gripped Cas's semi through the fabric, using the same moment to grind his hips in tighter and slide his hand along a wing again.

The sound his actions tore from Cas's throat was heaven, and Dean couldn't resist any longer. He relinquished his hold on Cas's wing to duck under it again, putting himself on his knees in front of the angel. Cas looked down at him.

"Dean," his name came out as a throaty growl.

"I'm here, Cas," Dean replied, his hands already working open the button and zipper. "I'm going to take care of you." Dean's own pants were tight across the front, but his focus was all for the long, thick cock he freed from Cas's slacks and plain, white cotton boxer shorts. He could kick himself for not doing this the first time they were together, but he got to make up for it now. Starting at the base, Dean gave a long, broad lick, all the way up until the tip of his tongue flicked off the tiny hole that was leaking precome for him. He felt Cas shudder just before Cas's hands descended on his shoulders for support and balance. Dean smiled to himself before swirling his tongue over Cas's swollen head and enveloping it in the heat of his mouth. Cas verbalized his pleasure again, fueling Dean. He found a good rhythm of stroking and bobbing his head, and the more Cas moaned for him, the more turned on he was getting.

At some point, Cas slid the fingers on one hand through Dean's hair. To encourage him, Dean reached up to place his hand atop Cas's, and he took as much of his cock into his throat as he could. Once, twice. Depriving himself of air each time. Cas took his cue and took a tighter grip of his hair as his hips rocked forward, shoving his cock deeper. Dean steadied himself on Cas's thighs and enjoyed the ride of getting face fucked. Tears squeezed from the corners of his eyes, yet he held on, letting himself be used and loving it. Cas buried himself deeply again, this time triggering Dean's gag reflex. He had to tap out to catch his breath, and only then did he notice the air in the room stirring. He looked up at Cas to see his wings beating in small movements, but their enormity was enough to create a breeze.

"Did I hurt y--"

Dean held up a finger to stop Cas from finishing his question. He smiled up at him, and tapped the side of Cas's shoe. "Finish undressing," he said, voice thick with saliva from having been used so thoroughly. "I want you on the bed."

Suiting his own words, Dean lifted to his feet and removed his shirt in one smooth motion. He was well aware of how Cas stared before the angel toed off his shoes, a little unsteadily, and shucked his pants and boxers. Dean was quick to strip as well. He ducked under a wing yet again, rounding behind Cas. He put a guiding hand on Cas's lower back. "On your knees," he instructed.

Cas obeyed his direction, feet sticking off the side of the bed. With a chuckle, Dean shook his head and removed Cas's socks for him. Then he allowed himself to take in the beauty before him. Cas had his head turned slightly, trying to look over his shoulder without turning so far as to hit Dean with his wing. God, his wings were magnificent. Dean stepped in to run his hands up Cas's back and to smooth along the tops of his wings again. It brought yet another shiver, and Cas dropped his chin to his chest. So fucking sexy.

"I could run my hands over you all night," he murmured. He pressed at Cas's lower back. "Keep going; brace on the headboard." He followed Cas onto the bed, still not wanting to stop touching him. When Cas was arms length from the headboard, Dean molded his body against Cas's back, snugging his cock into the crack of his ass. He wrapped his arms around Cas, one across his middle, holding him close, the other dipped lower and found his cock again. Dean stroked it a few times then ventured lower, cupping his sack for a moment before tracing a finger back to barely find and tease the edge of the tight hole hidden beneath.

Cas squirmed, one arm bracing on the headboard as he had been told, the other along Dean's, holding it to him as though it was even an option that Dean would let go. Dean hummed in his ear. "That's good, isn't it?" He felt Cas nod. "You want more?" Another nod. Dean lifted his hand to Cas's mouth and slid his finger back and forth across Cas's bottom lip. "Get it wet for me," he whispered.

Obligingly, Cas drew the digit into his mouth, sucking at it as Dean had been sucking him earlier. Dean's cock surged, and he couldn't stop himself from rutting against Cas in reaction. He withdrew his finger slowly, giving Cas the opportunity to coat it with saliva, and made a mental note that this was the last time he would ever be caught without a bottle of lube. Dean lowered his hand back under Cas, seeking where he had left off. It was an awkward reach, so he could only rub and tease the pucker but not penetrate. He finally had to extract himself from the warmth of Cas's body -earning a small whine of protest when he made Cas let his arm go- and pulled back to touch him from behind.

Dean rewet his finger, two fingers this time, and he used one to rub circles around Cas's presented hole, smiling and letting off some as he felt Cas push back against him. "This is what you want right here, isn't it?" he cooed. "For me to do this?" He crooked his finger against slightest bit of resistance, then gained entrance and slid it in, pulling a filthy groan from Cas's throat. "Fuck, Cas, you keep making these sounds, and you're gonna get me off just listenin' to you."

Dean worked his finger, coaxing Cas along on a ride of pleasure. After a time, Dean added a second finger. Now, he sought Cas's prostate and massaged it with each slow insertion before sliding back and doing it again. Cas was writhing his hips, keeping pace with the way Dean's fingers were working him, his whole body damn near vibrating. Through it, Cas's wings began to move again, a gentle, involuntary flap that somehow caught time with the rhythm they had adopted.

Wanting to touch Cas's wings again, Dean eased his fingers out and reclaimed his warm spot. There was a sheen of sweat covering Cas as Dean fitted against his body. He ran the tip of his nose up the back of Cas's ear, following it with his lips. "Are you ready?" he asked, ending his question with a grind of his hips.

"Yesss," Cas hissed and pushed back against him.

"Ready for this?" Another grind.

"Yes." A return of the whine tinged his voice.

"Ready for me to slide my cock inside of you, Castiel?"

Cas exhaled heavily. He pushed once more against Dean with a tiny, "Please."

"Mmm, that was pretty, but you don't have to beg. I'm gonna give you what you need." With that, Dean took hold of his cock and -after adding even more saliva, along with a reminder of that previous mental note- lined up to Cas's waiting furl. As soon as he felt it, Cas tried to back up onto him, and Dean had to steady the angel with his other hand. "Ah-ah," he scolded. "I'll do this part." He eased slowly, carefully inside of Cas. It wasn't a matter of not wanting to cause him pain; Dean knew he wouldn't hurt him. Angels were made of sterner stuff than that. No, this was about making sure to milk every last drop of ecstasy from this as he could.

The squeeze on his head and the accompanying sigh from Cas sent sparks through Dean, and it drove him to stop thinking long enough to pull Cas all the way onto his cock, slow pleasure be damned. But the unholy moan that rose from Cas at being impaled in one thrust told Dean he hadn't lost much by not working into him a little bit at a time.

Dean soon found a steady rhythm to pump into Cas, but as Cas tried to match it, Dean reached up his back and found the edges of his wings again. The touch caused Cas to falter and simply hold onto the headboard for support as Dean's hands roamed as much as he could reach of the black feathers. He kept coming back to the thicker, meatier parts of the wings at the tops near where they joined Cas's body. There, the touches were getting the loudest groans and deepest shivers.

One hand drifted down from the wings and wrapped around Cas's body again to grip his cock and start stroking. As predicted, Cas verbalized his pleasure, causing Dean to grin. "Goddamn, Cas, I had no idea you were this vocal," he panted between thrusts. He gave Cas a little squeeze. "Put your hand over mine. Show me what makes you feel good." He felt Cas's hand slide over his and begin to guide them both with strokes and wrist turns and even running their thumbs over the slick of precome that now coated his head. All the while, Dean kept his hips moving. Cas's hand sped up, urging Dean to follow. He heard his name hiss between the angel's teeth.

"I'm... I'm going to..." Cas rasped.

"That's it. Give in to it. I want you to come for me." Dean gripped the base of a wing with one hand as the other flew over Cas's cock.

With that, Cas's ring spasmed around Dean, and Dean used the tell to slam home while a harsh yell tore from Cas's lungs. The beating of his wings had intensified. They weren't quite buffeting Dean, but he could definitely feel the air in the room being disturbed by them. It was surreal to have them in front of him, to watch them and feel them like this, but he liked it. A lot.

Hands quickly finding Cas's hips, Dean redoubled his efforts and sucked in a deep breath as the tight hole squeezed him. It only took a few more strokes for him to reach orgasm, his voice finally ringing out.

"Fuuuuckkk..." He buried his explosion as deeply as he could. He couldn't hold back another series of thrusts, then he pushed hard inside Cas again and slumped against his back, cradled by the base of his wings. "Fuck, Cas." He turned his head to kiss the smooth skin under his face. "How did I get so lucky?" he murmured.

Slowly, and with some effort, Dean lifted and withdrew. He plopped back to sit down on the foot of the bed to admire the beautiful spread of wings sprouting from a muscled back, rounded out with the nicest-shaped, pert ass, just right there in front of him. It was the most amazing view in the room. All too soon, Cas was lowering too. He was careful to lift his wing over Dean's head as he turned to sit.

"We should clean up." Cas moved a hand to do just that, but Dean spoke up.

"Actually, I was thinking we could maybe take a shower."

"A shower...? Why? I can simply--"

"Cas," Dean cut in. "A shower... together."

"But why would...? Oh."

Dean smiled as the pieces clicked together for Cas.

"Unfortunately, that means you're going to have to put your wings away if you want to actually fit in there. But when we're done, I'm hoping I'll be able to sweet talk you into wrapping them around me again when I go to sleep."

"I can think of no better way to end this night," Cas replied with his own smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> EVER WANTED TO BE A FICTIONAL CHARACTER? *waves arm frantically overhead*


	26. Chapter 26

It was sometime after midnight when Sam shut off the Impala's engine in the hotel parking lot. He still had a stupid grin on his face from his time with Isabelle, and the easy feeling of sexual satisfaction had him light on his feet as he headed for the room he shared with Dean. He was already unlocking the door when it suddenly dawned on him that the last time he had walked in by himself, he had been greeted by an unobstructed view of bare angel crack. The memory wiped the smile from his face. Dammit, he didn't want to have to book another room.

He cracked the door open just a touch and listened. If there was any sound -any at all- he would close it again. But as he waited, there wasn't a thing. Cautiously, he widened the opening and eased his head into the dark room. Through the orange glow cast from the streetlight without, Sam saw a bundle in Dean's bed that accounted for more than one body laying there. ...More than two bodies, even. What the hell?

Sam let himself fully into the room and closed the door as quietly as he could. On silent feet, he made his way between the beds to look down at what he could see in the dim light. The first thing he noticed was that they were covered with the blanket this time, which he appreciated. Dean was laying on his side, facing the middle of the room and spooned from behind by Cas. One of Cas's wings was folded tightly against his back, and the other encompassed Dean like a feathery burrito shell. Sam smiled at the peaceful expression on Dean's face and let a small exhale puff from his nose.

Cas opened his eyes at the sound and rolled them up to lock them onto Sam's. They held eye contact, and in that silent moment, they acknowledged each others' acceptance of Cas's new role in Dean's life. Then Sam gave a single nod, which Cas returned, and he made his way into the bathroom to get himself ready for bed.

The first step was a quick shower to eliminate the smell of latex, pussy, semen, and sweat: the smell of sex. Sam had been disappointed with himself for not stocking up on more condoms after their first night together, having burned through the one in his wallet, the couple Isabelle had on hand, plus all the spares Dean kept in the glove box, but Isabelle had saved the day when she produced a box from her purse. They only used one this time, though. After the long makeout session on the hood of the car, full of roaming hands, teasing touches, and copious amounts of dry humping like they were teenagers who were afraid to play 'just the tip,' they really hadn't had time to have sex more than once before Isabelle declared she had given herself a curfew because she had a busy day tomorrow.

Sam finished his shower, dressed in his pajamas in the bathroom, brushed his teeth, and made sure the light was off before he opened the door to go to his bed. Just as he was about to pull the blanket down, he noticed how rumpled it was.  _ So help me, Dean, you two better not have fucked on my bed. _ But there was nothing for it without waking them up and asking if there were going to be any sticky surprises for him.

He glanced to where his brother lay snuggled in the other bed by Cas. Well, he wouldn't be waking Cas, despite the fact the angel looked like he was sleeping. Sam knew angels didn't sleep, which made him cuddling Dean all night like this all the more endearing. Dean probably wouldn't like hearing it out loud, but they looked cute together. Sam ran a hesitant hand over his pillows, checking for wet spots. When he didn't find any, he decided against making a big deal about his bed being used -in whatever way- and climbed in. He was asleep in minutes.

 

.oOo.

 

The next morning, Dean was almost too hot. His eyes weren't even open yet when memories slotted into place, and he identified the cause of the excess heat. Suddenly, it was the perfect temperature. He sighed with contentment and started to cuddle in closer to the body that spooned him. But as he moved, an ache alerted him to how stiff his body was, and he realized that he had slept so well and so hard that he hadn't moved all night long. A groan of discomfort came on the tail of the sigh. He had to roll over, which meant pulling away from Cas to do it. Decisions, decisions. In the end, he inched away from Cas just far enough to roll onto his back. This let him turn his head and open his eyes to be greeted by what could quite possibly be the best good morning he could imagine: Cas's intensely deep, blue eyes smiling down at him from where Cas had propped up on his elbow when Dean moved. A guy could get used to this.

"Good morning, Dean."

"Yes it is." He cupped Cas's face and drew him in for a long, lazy kiss. His morning wood liked it. Very much. As he moaned into Cas's mouth and started to roll toward him, a sharp sound of someone clearing their throat broke the moment.

Dean looked over at the kitchenette table to see Sam sitting there with two cups of coffee and a styrofoam to-go box from Martha Jo's. He had his laptop open, eyes on the screen, but the throat-clearing had been a loud hint: don't have sex while little brother is in the room.

"Uh, hey Sammy. Didn't hear you come in." Dean tried to angle himself so his erection wouldn't tent the blanket. Sam lifted his gaze from the laptop and looked at them pointedly, bitch face in full effect.

"I'll give you time to get dressed, but only that. We need to be hitting the road, and I really don't want to wait around outside while you two... yeah." With that, he grabbed his coffee and rose to vacate his seat and the room itself.

Dean turned back to Cas. "I'm sorely tempted to make him wait anyway," he said, kissing his angel again. "But I guess since home is only three hours down the road, I can hold off."

Cas nodded his agreement. "I think that would be for the best."

The worst part about getting out of bed was Cas hiding his wings again, but it had to be done. They got up to dress. Cas was still sliding his pants over his boxer-covered ass, and Dean barely had his jeans zipped when the door opened again to allow Sam to re-enter the room. "Jesus, Sam, knock much?"

"I told you to get dressed. Not my fault you were distracted," Sam smirked at him. "Besides, all the important stuff is covered. Dress. Eat. Let's get on the road. We need to be out of here before folks start asking too many questions about where Daniel went. Also, I'm tired of sleeping in a hotel room that doesn't even get dark at night."

"Amen to that, brother." Dean looked at Cas with a smile. "Gotta say... some pretty amazing things can happen in the dark."


End file.
